


Ask Your Doctor If This Is Good For You

by peterdonaldson



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, References to Suicide, Suicide Attempt, alcoholic!grantaire, but squeamish people maybe don't read, doctor!Enjolras, hospital au, it's not very graphic, patient!Grantaire, possible suicide triggers ch4 onwards, there's an operation in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterdonaldson/pseuds/peterdonaldson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Enjolras, used to the situation by now, barely glances at him anymore as he throws an ‘ALCOHOL AND DRUG ADDICTION: Speak To Your Attending Physician About Treatments For You’ pamphlet onto the bed and barks “You’re out,”. The guy just smirks at him, pale sweaty skin gleaming in the light as he heaves himself up. He knows his way out by now.<br/>Enjolras likes to stare at the guy’s retreating back and imagine what it would look like if there was a knife wedged between the shoulder blades.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this wonderful gifset: http://anditsings.tumblr.com/post/43653575933 , made by tumblr user anditsings. The thanks go to her for the indirect prompt, and for keeping this idea in my head for days!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this wonderful gifset: http://anditsings.tumblr.com/post/43653575933 , made by tumblr user anditsings. The thanks go to her for the indirect prompt, and for keeping this idea in my head for days!

Hospitals are stressful places. It’s practically a part of the job description; you want to be a doctor, you have to be prepared to put up with some shit. Enjolras still vividly remembers the time that guy had come in with a massive gash on his arm and appeared to be completely accommodating – he’d sat quietly through his stitches, not complained at the sting of the anaesthetic or the unpleasant tug of the thread, paid attention to everything his doctor had told him – and then suddenly stood up and torn them straight out of his arm. Enjolras had only been working at the hospital for a few weeks then, he’d never seen so much blood in his life.

He’s seen a lot more since, and his stomach’s toughened up massively too.

Joly, of course, still retches at every wound he sees, and despite his flawless hygiene routines usually has a breakdown about once a week – “You don’t understand, it’s a perfectly logical diagnosis, new strains of E. coli are developing all the time and that patient has had diarrhoea for _over a week_ ” – but still, he’s an excellent physician and no hospital is ever overrun with those. Enjolras has known him for five years now, ever since they started as interns together, and they’re closer than most of the doctors on the ward. Joly isn’t afraid to call him out on his shit, when he works too much or begins to dehumanise to the point that patients are getting worried, and Enjolras has always been prepared to whack Joly’s hypochondriac fears straight out of the window, so they’re good. But on days like today, even his friend can’t always cool his head down.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters as he storms into the back room and slams a sheaf of papers down onto his desk. Joly’s sat in a swivel chair, slowly revolving as he sips coffee and pretends to fill in forms.

“Is he back again?” he asks with a smirk in his voice, tapping his pen on the table in a way he knows pisses Enjolras off to no end.

“It’s a complete waste of resources, there are so many other patients who actually need the money we have to spend on pumping his fucking stomach! And who the hell decides to get paralytic at one o’clock in the afternoon?” He slumps down into his chair, and starts signing the marked documents with unnecessary aggression. Joly watches him for a few minutes, then hesitantly says, “You know, I can always take on a couple of your other patients this afternoon, if you need to go and force him onto a programme or something.”

Sighing, Enjolras leans back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, I’m not giving him that luxury. He can sign himself onto his own course, I’m not wasting my time arguing with somebody who can barely pronounce his own name. I just need to go and give these to reception, then he’ll be gone, anyway.”

“For today,” Joly murmurs, grinning. Enjolras shoots him a glare, then scoops up the papers and heads out. If he slams the door shut a bit too hard, well, Joly deserved it.

This particular patient has been pretty regular for the past few months. Most commonly, he’ll have drunk himself into a state where he can barely crawl (on many occasions, he’s simply passed out), but Enjolras has also been forced to withdraw any number of suspicious looking substances from an extremely long-suffering stomach. Unfortunately, he can’t legally force rehabilitation on the man, he needs personal consent and that is something his ‘friend’ has been very reluctant to give. So Enjolras, used to the situation by now, barely glances at him anymore as he throws an ‘ALCOHOL AND DRUG ADDICTION: Speak To Your Attending Physician About Treatments For You’ pamphlet onto the bed and barks “You’re out,”. The guy just smirks at him, pale sweaty skin gleaming in the light as he heaves himself up. He knows his way out by now.

Enjolras likes to stare at the guy’s retreating back and imagine what it would look like if there was a knife wedged between the shoulder blades.

Dumping the forms down on the desk, he notices Cosette is the nurse on duty today. Stunning, with her long blonde hair and round eyes, she’s the favourite nurse of everyone in the building, even those employees (such as himself) who are most definitely not attracted to women. If he were in a better mood, he’d smile because she’s an absolute angel, but instead he just grunts ‘Paperwork to be filed for, uh, Grantaire, R.”

She looks up at him with her beautiful eyes, and smiles as she takes the folder from him. “Well, somebody’s full of the joys of spring today. What’s wrong?”

Groaning, he crosses his arms on the desk and rests his chin on them.

“Monsieur Asshole decided to make a reappearance, did you not see him staggering outside just now? Seriously, there must be some sort of legal claim I can make for having to stick a tube down his throat that many times.”

She laughs, a musical sound that causes the knees of everyone within earshot to go weak. “Ah, the mysterious ‘R’. You really hate him, don’t you?” Standing up, she leans over the counter to catch a glimpse of the retreating man. She squints, then grins. “You have to admit though, he’s kind of gorgeous.”

“And that would be my co-worker and good friend you’re engaged to, my dear, don’t go getting any ideas,” says a voice from behind them. Enjolras turns to see Joly, a fresh coffee in his hand. “Are we discussing Enjolras’ favourite patient, by any chance?”

“Jesus Christ, let’s just stop talking about him for a minute, please, so I can get my head back together,” says Enjolras from behind the hands that rub his face.

“Oh, Marius won’t mind, he’s a darling,” says Cosette. “You see it, right Joly?”

Although in a committed relationship with Musichetta, who runs the hospital restaurant and is probably the first person ever to have left Enjolras speechless in an argument, Joly is by no means averse to a bit of healthy objectification, and he takes a glance. ‘R’ is almost out of sight by now, but thanks to a strict eye test schedule Joly has contacts which allow him to maintain very sharp sight. Whistling, he winks at Enjolras and says “Well, I’m not sure why you’re complaining. Dude’s got an ass and a half.”

“You’re both extremely understanding friends, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” scoffs Enjolras, but he allows a small smile before turning on his heel and striding off to attend to patients he feels actually deserve his attention.

 ***

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Joly’s smirk has never been as smug as it is now. “Now, now, ‘Jolras, we have an unidentified substance on our hands here.” He hands the clipboard over to Enjolras, practically beaming. He scans it briefly, reads the statement of the witness. He’s used to the handwriting, it’s the same guy who always brings R in – the flowery signature is difficult to read, but ‘JEAN PROUVAIRE, emergency contact’ is neatly printed beneath it. “Unidentified substance, my ass. Yeah, it’s going to be coke. It’s always fucking coke.” He’s under obligation to act as quickly as possible, but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking a kick to Joly’s leg as he walks out of the door.

A week and a half. That’s got to be some kind of record. He’s never been one for the whole ‘drugs ‘n’ clubs’ lifestyle himself, but come on, it’s a Thursday morning. Nobody does anything illegal on a Thursday morning. It just doesn’t happen. And yet here he is, about to once again wedge a tube into the gut of a man who should frankly and by most laws of biology be dead by now. His intestines have got to be wrecked, to say nothing for the state of his liver.

Catching up with the trolley, he looks down into the now-familiar face. Whatever Cosette might think, right now the guy looks completely shot to hell – his skin pasty, his eyes red, with grey patches on his cheeks. His dark hair is a mess on the pillow, and his eyes can’t stay focused. He looks terrified, and this is by far the worst Enjolras has ever seen him. This is definitely an overdose.

“What have we got?” he asks, knowing the answer off by heart.

“25 year old male, excessive alcohol intake. OD: at least one unknown substance, suspected cocaine, requiring immediate gastric lavage.”

Pulling on his gloves as the bed comes to a halt, he lets the med team attach various tubes and needles.

“Right then, Mr Grantaire,” he says, trying his utmost to keep the edge out of his voice and failing rather spectacularly. “I’m going to need you to keep still for me. As a warning, this is going to be fairly unpleasant, but my friend here’s controlling the anaesthetic, so your pain should be at a minimum level. Okay, Bossuet.” He nods at the anaesthetist, who performs his job swiftly and with precision. Once the anaesthetic has kicked into action, Enjolras begins the procedure.

It’s fairly standard, and to be perfectly honest he’s bored of doing this to R by now. He can see the gunky liquid travelling through tubes in his peripheral vision and it doesn’t affect him in the least, which is a good thing, but also quite depressing. He’s seen the contents of R’s stomach too many times, and he really has no desire to do so again. But he knows he will have to at some point in the near future.

For some reason, this time around it pisses him off even more than usual. Why should he have to do this every month? Yeah, he’s a doctor, he enjoys healing people, but this isn’t _healing_ , it’s – it’s _purging_. And it’s grim. And he doesn’t mind doing it for the faceless strangers they get in every day, the ones who have simply suffered a bad night out and never return again, but this mockery of the medical profession – it’s horrible. He hates it. And as he looks down at the lolling head of his patient, he finally gives in to his resolve, and decides to play his role.

His assisting nurses clear up with impeccable teamwork. In excellent time, the bed is back in place, and the tubes are safely removed. He collects up the paperwork, gives the team a ‘good job, guys’, and walks off down the corridor without a second glance at his patient.

R just stares at him from the bed.

***

The next morning, Enjolras walks into the room with a feeling of dread. He’s never enjoyed doing this, and he can imagine that a discussion like this with R is going to be even worse than usual.

Pulling out the chair next to the bed, he notices that R appears to be awake. His eyes are open, anyway. When he coughs, and the eyes flicker to him, this is confirmed.

“Hi. I’m Enjolras, I’m your doctor, and I’m just here to have a little conversation with you, okay? I’ve just got to fill these forms in, and then we can talk.”

It’s a lie, he could easily have filled the forms in last night, but a man of his calibre knows when he’s going to want to stall, and prepares for it. He pulls out a pen, and starts to write.

Eventually, the professional silence turns into an awkward one. The scribbling of the pen does nothing to break it, and Enjolras can’t keep his eyes fixed this permanently on the form forever. He’s going have to give the speech.

Signing his name on the final line, he clicks the pen and lays the clipboard on the side table. R’s eyes do not move from him the whole time. Sitting forward, he clasps his hands together and rests his elbows on his knees.

“Right then, Mr Grantaire. We need to discuss - ”

“Just Grantaire, mate.”

Enjolras blinks at the interruption. The guy – Grantaire – gives a croaky laugh from a raw throat, and says hoarsely, “It’s what everyone calls me.”

“Okay. Um, Grantaire. We need to discuss what paths you’re going to take next.”

A chuckle from the bed. “Aren’t you just going to chuck a leaflet at me and throw me out again, as per usual?”

“I – no,” replies Enjolras, trying his hardest to quell the guilt he feels at the statement. “Not this time. You’re a recurring patient, and it’s my medical responsibility to advise you on your problem, which I believe is addiction. Substance abuse is a common problem amongst people not just of your age group, and there are plenty of solutions that we can point you in the direction of. Now - ”

“Seriously?”

Silence.

“Uh, I - ”

“No, seriously? Like, I come in here every fucking month, and it’s been like a billion times – I understand all of your sodding terminology, and everything – and you’re only doing this now? Because man, that’s messed up.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. So he just sits there, because Grantaire is right.

“Dude, I am _dying_. I get that. Seriously, the shit I put in my body – I get that. But your job’s supposed to be to stop me from dying, isn’t it?”

More silence.

“Isn’t it?”

Eventually, Enjolras finds his voice. But the wrong thing comes out.

“It’s my medical responsibility to advise you on your problem, which I believe - ”

“Oh my fucking God.” Grantaire swings his legs haphazardly, and staggers out of the bed. “I’ll see myself out, thanks.” As he hobbles to the door, he pulls a pamphlet from the pile on the side. “Oh, wouldn’t want to forget this – got a bloody subscription, and all.”

He spits the sentence out, and then the door shuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am NOT a medical professional or a student, so all the details here were provided by our LORD GOOGLE - I apologise for any inaccuracies there may be! Also, hospitals kind of creep me out, so I haven't ever spent much time in one - yeah, basically I chose to write about a subject I am pretty ill-educated on. I'm judging myself, don't worry. Thanks for reading, more's on its way!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an operation in this chapter. It isn't graphic, but be warned :)

It’s been 3 months since Grantaire pulled his disappearing act, and there hasn’t been any word of his turning up at the hospital since. Enjolras knows he should be pleased about it – this means they’ve done their job, the guy’s taken a step back – but instead he feels nothing but a low, sick guilt in his stomach. And it’s awful because he shouldn’t get like this, the whole point of this job is to be emotionally secure – he’s seen more children die on operating tables than anyone should ever have to – but the way Grantaire had seemed to openly _despise_ him, it’s pulled something up inside him. He’s always been good at what he does, and finding this failure inside him is repugnant.  Everyone’s noticed the change in his behaviour; Dr. Lamarque had to pull him from a routine check up because the nurse on standby had been worried the patient was going to get hurt.

“Enjolras, you’re a great doctor. But this has got to stop. You’ve been acting off for a couple of weeks now, and I’m not prepared to risk patients’ safety over this. If you’re having problems, you need to let me know, because you’re one of the best on this ward and I don’t want to see you losing the promise you’ve always shown. Are you okay?”

Of course, he’d nodded, because what could he have said? ‘Sorry, Doctor, I’ve just been hung up on the fact that I saved a patient’s life because he said some things to me that have made me revaluate several of my choices in life and I’m kind of upset that he hasn’t poisoned his stomach again so I can perform another lavage’?

Jesus Christ. He needs to get his head on straight.

Joly, of course, knows exactly what’s going on. He pretended for a few days that he hadn’t heard the whole exchange, but he’s a terrible actor and eventually Enjolras had just called him out on it. But he’s a really good friend, and it hasn’t slipped Enjolras’ notice that he’s had a few less patients recently, while Joly’s had a few more. He’s even tried to cool off on the hypochondria thing, which Enjolras knows is really hard for him, and wow, he must be truly crapping things up if Joly’s taken to whispering “So, I think… well, I looked it up last night, and although the vaccine _minimises_ the risk, it’s far from obliterating it entirely, and those spots were not there before…” in Bossuet’s ear instead of his own.

He hates himself a lot more now.

If he were to look at his computer history, back in his tiny flat, he would have realised how obsessive he’s become about any return. He’s researched alcohol detoxification schemes galore, and looked at possible triggers, and although he’s never specialised in alcohol poisoning before, he’s suddenly become quite the expert.

It’s a Thursday morning when Joly comes running in. Exactly four months to the day.

Enjolras is sat in the office, nursing a cup of tea and trying to finish writing up the intern reports, when the door slams open and Joly is there, red faced and panting.

Joly never runs outside of his exercise routines when he can help it. Sudden circulatory issues could easily occur. Enjolras leaps to his feet.

“Joly.”

“He’s back.”

“Who?” Enjolras doesn’t need to be told; he knows perfectly well that Joly means Grantaire.

“Enjolras?”

“Yeah. Got it. Take my other patients, would you?”

But Joly’s face is paling now, and Enjolras’ heart actually rises into his throat. He doesn’t ask. Instead, he pulls the clipboard from underneath Joly’s arm.

CAR ACCIDENT, WHITE MALE, 25 YEARS OLD, unconscious on arrival:

  * suspected broken ribs: 3;
  * suspected splenic rupture – urgent SPLENECTOMY required;
  * suspected internal bleeding;



He runs.

He _runs_.

“Dr. Bossuet, we have patient, spleen ruptured by blunt trauma, splenic artery requiring fastening – page Dr. Feuilly urgently – Enjolras, what are you – ”

“I’m acting anaesthetist,” he garbles, catching up with the trolley and pulling on his gloves. Bossuet only glances at him for a second in confusion before nodding, and walking away, pager in hand. Enjolras looks down, and his stomach plummets.

He shouldn’t care so much about this. He shouldn’t, because the last time he saw this man, he practically told him he didn’t care whether he lived or died. Maybe he needs to make up for that now.

Grantaire’s face is battered, as though it’s been dragged through thorns and grazed across stone. It’s mostly superficial, though, and normally Enjolras wouldn’t bat an eyelid. But Grantaire’s chest is heaving, and he can _hear_ the cracking sounds as his ribs grind together. Internal bleeding is more than possible; it’s incredibly likely, and combined with the ruptured spleen…

They need to operate now.

Dr. Feuilly, the surgeon Enjolras has always trusted the most, arrives just as they reach the theatre. He’s filled in on the details quickly (car accident as a result of impaired judgement, alcohol and suspected but as of yet unidentified drugs) by Combeferre, a nurse who’s regularly on Enjolras’ team. He snaps on his mask and they all follow suit.

It’s a relatively clean operation, but this is just the spleen. The internal bleeding is minimal, cleared up fast, but there’s a moment when the artery slips under the scalpel and Enjolras thinks he might pass out. He knows he shouldn’t be here; he’s probably causing more damage than good. Emotions cloud judgement. But anaesthetising is definitely the best job he could be doing, and he keeps Grantaire well under.

The ribs are next, done straight away for safety purposes. The breaks are clean, and the binding simple. Grantaire will be all right. But he isn’t leaving hospital any time soon, that’s for sure.

Enjolras leads the way as he’s wheeled to his ward. Enjolras’ ward. Joly is waiting with a look of intense worry on his face, which dissipates at the sight of the bed. He walks over as Enjolras finishes transferring Grantaire, and begins to whisper urgently.

“I was supposed to be in there, man – you don’t do surgery for a reason, remember? Lamarque’ll kill you if he finds out.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t have lived with it, Joly. Alright? I just – I damn near killed this guy once, I wasn’t doing it again.”

Joly looks as though he very much wants to say something in reply, but is forcing it back down his throat. Instead, he passes a file over, and sighs. “He’s in for a few days, he’ll be on Pnu-Imune 23. And they want to check him in, this time, now it’s caused a public problem. Damaged a wall or something. You’re going to have to get his permission, or a family member’s.”

“Do we have one on record?”

“Nope, just that Prouvaire guy who always brings him in. He was in the car with him, he’s talking to the police right now, but I can get him in after if you want to talk to him.”

Enjolras nods, and as Joly walks away, grabs his arm.

“Thanks, man. I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole about everything these past couple of months.”

Joly just smiles and replies, “It’s you, I’m used to it,” before heading back into the office.

 ***

“Morning!”

Grantaire groans as Enjolras walks into the room. “Piss off, man, it’s like 6am.”

“Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you,” continues Enjolras, as if Grantaire hadn’t said anything. “The good news is, today we can release you, as long as you’re okay with coming for check ups and regularly taking your antibiotics. The bad news is… you haven’t given your consent yet, and I’m afraid I am going to have to contact a family member if you continue to refuse.”

“Oh my God, seriously, I am not having this conversation at this ungodly hour,” moans Grantaire, rolling over in his bed and only wincing slightly at the pain in his ribs. Enjolras just laughs as he checks the machine.

“I’m just going to have to repeat myself.”

“Yeah, you always do,” murmurs Grantaire.

“You could face legal prosecution for damage of public space, as well as breaching driving law – it’s kind of illegal for you not to sort out your issues, at this point, so it would be really good of you to make my job easier and your life longer by just agreeing.”

The door opens, and Enjolras turns to see what appears to be a floral cloud waft into the room. He smiles, because he knows Jehan by now, but it had been quite frankly terrifying the first time he’d met him. Sitting in a consultation room, he’d been prepared for a straightforward interview, but instead a creature swathed in enough scarves and ribbons to drown a person had come running in, thrown his arms around his neck and sobbed about how it was _all his fault_ and he should _never have gotten in that car in the first place_ and he’ll _never touch a drop of alcohol again_.

“Grantaire!” he shouts, hurrying to his friend’s side. “You’re going to hate me so much!”

“What did you do this time, shitface,” mumbles Grantaire into his pillow.

“I called your sister!”

The room goes still at this point, and Enjolras can tell that this is not something to be taken lightly. The silence feels like the calm just before a rather massive storm.

“Uh, I need to go and – this other patient, she – yeah okay,” he stumbles out as he makes it to the door just before he hears,

“ _YOU CALLED **EPONINE**_?!”

 Joly’s there with his trademark coffee and a sympathetic smile.

“How’s the ‘happy doctor’ approach going?”

“Like shit.” Enjolras is frank as he opens a filing cabinet. “Actual shit. I can’t get him to _do anything_. I mean, he’s great for conversation and everything, but the second I bring up rehab he just shuts down.”

“Well, at least he talks to you.”

Enjolras looks up. “What?”

Joly looks surprised. “Didn’t you know? He won’t even speak to any of the other doctors, it’s the silent treatment or the finger.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, but Joly doesn’t appear to be joking.

“I went in there the other day, routine meds – not a word. He must just really like you.”

Looking through the glass of the door, Enjolras can see Grantaire’s argumentative expression as he clutches a mobile phone – clearly talking to this ‘Eponine’ – and swats at Jehan with a limp hand. His dark curls are all over the place, and for a moment his eyes meet Enjolras’ through the door. He signals wildly at him.

“Huh,” says Enjolras. Then he opens the door and heads back into the room.

It’s half chaos, with Jehan hunched frozen in a chair as far away from Grantaire as he can get and Grantaire hollering into the phone, tearing at his hair.

“’Ponine – _‘Ponine_ – no, for fuck’s sake, I told you! Well, it wasn’t his job to – Jesus, will you listen for one second – you know what! Fine! I’ll do it! I’ll fucking do it, there’s a fucking doctor right here and I’ll do it and then you don’t ever have to set foot in here!”

He throws the phone down and turns to face Enjolras. His eyes are on fire, he looks completely wild.

“Right, here’s the thing. You’re going to put me on one of those stupid fucking courses so that I can prove a point to my stupid fucking sister.”

Enjolras is practically dancing inside, of course he is, but he keeps a cool expression. “Would you like to discuss your possible routes with a specialist, or simply choose a course now?”

Grantaire flops backwards onto the bed.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t care, put me on whichever one you want.”

Joly had left sheets on the side for a situation such as this, and Enjolras picks one up.

“Well, for someone of your levels, I’d suggest detoxification before anything more drastic. I can prescribe you with medication and B1 vitamin supplements, but you’ll have to come in daily for a breathalyser test and you’re going to have to have a pretty strong resolve. Family or friend support’ll be important, too” – he glances as Jehan, who manages a smile – “but I can’t give you a definite length of time it’ll last. Completely up to your own willpower.”

Grantaire shuts his eyes, and groans. “Well, it’s lucky I’ve got so much of that, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I imagine the medical accuracy was pretty shocking, but thanks for reading :) More soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you guys so much for all the great feedback! And no one's called me out on my inaccuracies yet, so that's all good :) okay, here's the new chapter (and be warned: HERE THERE BE DEFINITE PLOT-LIKE THINGS HAPPENING)

On the first day, Grantaire arrives at reception with hands that shake so much he can’t sign his own name. Cosette, the lovely person she is, takes the pen from him and fills his form in for him. He has to stop to throw up on his way to the consultation room, and he sweats the whole way through the test. Enjolras notes down the symptoms, but they haven’t progressed into delirium tremens or anything as bad as that so he gives the green light on the next appointment. Grantaire glares at him on the way out, while Jehan tentatively holds his arm to keep him up.

It gets better, but very, very slowly.

After two weeks, Grantaire doesn’t shake any more, but he’s cried a couple of times and it’s still not pleasant. He sweats all the time, he says, and he’s been having nightmares. “And they’re fucking metal nightmares, man, like I can’t even move when I wake up. Jesus, if you could actually _see…_ ”

One month and three days after the beginning of the treatment, Grantaire comes in without Jehan for the first time. Enjolras, who is talking to another patient in a corner, spots him coming down the corridor and gestures for him to go straight in.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, if you could just excuse me – I’ll send Dr. Joly straight out – thanks.”

He heads down the corridor, picking up Grantaire’s file as he goes. He’s been doing really well, Enjolras is incredibly pleased for him. Keeping up this progress should have him independent by the end of the month, and possibly even for the rest of his life – he won’t have to come into the hospital again, provided he keeps his head on straight. Enjolras should be pleased about this, too.

But he’s not.

It isn’t like he doesn’t want Grantaire to get better. He _does_. He just doesn’t want to see him go. After all, it’s been months now, and they’re friends. True, normal friends don’t usually measure the other’s blood alcohol levels and supply them with vitamin supplements, but Enjolras has formed connections with patients before. It isn’t weird. It _isn’t_.

Deep down, he knows he isn’t really shitting anyone. Especially not Joly, who has developed an incredibly irritating habit of smiling at him whenever he laughs because Grantaire’s told a joke or lets his hand linger a little too long on his patient’s wrist. Or the time when Enjolras had stared as the light coming through the window caught behind dark curls and formed this glowing, breathtaking halo, or when Grantaire had cried for the first time and Enjolras hadn’t realised he was holding his hand until it was warm in his palm.

It’s just a thing. A thing. It’s not a proper - Enjolras isn’t like that.

Not patients.

The door creaks slightly as he pushes it open. Grantaire is sat in his usual chair, facing away from the door, with his head resting on a hand. His curls are tangled around his fingers, and he taps a slight rhythm as he waits. He wears a thin purple t-shirt, and he’s beautiful.

Enjolras doesn’t even realise he’s thought it.

Walking around the chair, he sits in his own, meeting the other man’s eyes. They have dark bags beneath them, which Grantaire rubs. They stand out on his face as glassy, and it doesn’t go away as Enjolras starts to talk.

“I hope your eyes are down to you pulling an all nighter,” he comments as he begins to assemble the breathalyser.

Grantaire gives a faint smirk, and nods. His eyes do not change, remaining completely glazed.

“Yeah, man. That’s all. Bond night, you know.”

Enjolras snorts. “Jehan? _Bond?_ ”

“I know. Bless him. I think he just likes the pretty scenery.”

“Where is he today, anyway?” he asks as he gives the tube to Grantaire. The latter puts it to his lips, but then stops at the question before he can exhale. His eyes dart up, and then down to focus on the tube. He stares at it for a moment as though he’s never seen it before in his life, and then sudden revulsion crosses his face.

Something’s wrong. Enjolras sits up.

“Grantaire…”

“Yeah, about this. I can’t.” The word is bitten off, but Enjolras hears it.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t” – Grantaire swallows, and rubs his eyes again - “I can’t do the breathalyser, I can’t do it, I’m so – I’m sorry.”

His voice cracks on the final word.

Immediately, Enjolras is out of his chair, pressing one hand to Grantaire’s neck and using to other to hold his head up. His well-trained mind seeks out what he fears instantly, and he knows exactly what it is he doesn’t want to see. Focusing on the tired eyes and dilated pupils, he feels the thrumming pulse beneath his fingertips, and closes his eyes.

“Oh, please tell me you didn’t.”

Grantaire’s eyes are full of tears.

“You _didn’t_.”

His suddenly trembling mouth opens.

“I can explain.”

“What is there to explain?” Enjolras sits back on his heels, rubs a hand over his face as he feels his insides twist. “I get it. I’ve heard it before, from hundreds of other versions of you. You weren’t strong enough. Well, I’m sorry. But I can’t change your resolve, I can’t make your will stronger, that was your end of the bargain.”

Grantaire picks up the breathalyser and stares at it.

“It was – I just hurt so much, _so much_.”

Enjolras stands up and puts his hands behind his head. He stands there for minutes, unable to register this properly because it’s all okay, everything has to be okay, nothing’s changed –

“Jesus, ‘Taire, you were doing _so well._ ”

He can’t leave the room. He’s not allowed. In this situation, he has to stay with the sufferer, no matter how much he wants to run away.

“I can tell you why.”

Grantaire’s looking up at him now, holding his gaze, and Enjolras wants to break away but he can’t because everything’s gone fuzzy and those bright eyes are the only solid thing in the room now.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Enjolras - ”

“I don’t want to - ”

“Jesus Christ, give me a chance, all right?”

Enjolras spins.

“What other reason could there possibly _be_?”

“It only happened because I was protecting my fucking friend!”

Enjolras’ mind stills for a second, and he blinks again. He looks down, and Grantaire’s eyes have not wavered.

“I’m sorry,” says Enjolras with carefully measured tone, “but in what universe does ‘protecting my friend’ result in getting mind-numbingly pissed?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, and then stands so his eyes are level with Enjolras’. His glare is, ironically enough, incredibly sober.

“Right. Okay. So. ‘Ponine has this new boyfriend. He’s called Montparnasse, and to put things bluntly, he’s a dick. With me so far?”

Enjolras realises a second too late he has to nod.

“So, we’re at my flat last night, and Montparnasse is getting pretty wasted, and Eponine’s trying to tell him to stop. Because of me. And Jehan’s with her on that. But he’s totally off his face on some new fucking flowery hippy weed shit, and he starts pulling out his poetry and crap like that, and Montparnasse grabs the book off him. And that book is, like, Jehan’s _life_ , okay, and this douchebag’s just rummaging through it and pissing himself at all the writing and Jehan’s getting more and more upset, and _then_ the real shit starts.”

Grantaire’s actually started crying, and fucking Christ, this is scary. Enjolras doesn’t know what to do, how he’s supposed to act. Is he allowed to be emotionally involved, aren’t there probably laws?

Yeah, okay. Screw them. Emotional involvement is something he’s not going to be able to avoid.

“See, Jehan’s got a crush on this guy called Courfeyrac. And he is the loveliest son of a bitch ever to walk the planet, okay, and I would die rather than see any harm come to him, but the thing is he’s kind of similar to Montparnasse. Physically, you know. Dark hair, blue eyes, and they both have this cheekbone thing kicking off – anyway, it’s like the vaguest description ever, _I_ could fit into that category, for Christ’s sake, but _of course_ Jehan’s written poetry about Courf because he’s exactly that sort of lonely soul, and Montparnasse is the exact sort of homophobic asshole to take it personally and start trying to pull Jehan’s brains out by his fucking plait. That and rip him to pieces with his bare hands.”

He starts to shudder, and Enjolras pushes him back into his chair, kneeling in front of him.

“Grantaire, it’s all right. It’s okay.”

“No, you – Montparnasse fucking beat him to a pulp, and ‘Ponine – she had to run, I threw her out of the room because she was _not_ getting hurt, she _wasn’t_ , and she tried to come back in and then he grabbed me and she just started _screaming_ , and that was when he got out the knife - ”

“Jesus _fuck_. Grantaire, she’s not hurt - ”

“No, she got out okay, but he tried to stab me a fair few times, and I hit him with a bottle, and he passed out, and I grabbed Jehan and we just _ran_. And we got to Courf’s, and we stayed there, but I woke up and I was in the kitchen and there was beer and I _couldn’t not_. I couldn’t not.”

He stops, and Enjolras realises he can no longer feel his own hand. Grantaire is holding it like a lifeline, and maybe it is.

“When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t even think about Montparnasse back at my flat, or how Jehan was doing. I was even okay about ‘Ponine once I’d called her. But I was so – so fucking worried, man, about disappointing you, and it’s stupid, fucking stupid, Christ fuck, but I just didn’t want you to see this, to see me back at square one, after everything – I had to explain it and I had to come in and it hurts so much, it hurts _so fucking much_.”

Enjolras’ heart rate has never been this fast.

He takes Grantaire’s other hand in his, and presses their foreheads together.

“Don’t you ever, _ever_ – Grantaire, you saved two people’s _lives_.”

“That’s a day’s work for you.”

“Shut up, I get paid to pump paralytics’ stomachs.”

Grantaire almost smiles. Reaching up, he cards his hand through Enjolras’ hair, and another tear leaks out of his eye.

“By every law of reason, you should hate me.”

“I tried that, didn’t turn out so well – there was a problem, called splenic rupture.”

Grantaire laughs, and then more tears come, and the convulsions are those of a sobbing man. His hands shake as he embraces Enjolras.

“You need to stop, ‘Taire.”

“I can’t. Because what if I don’t ever get better.”

His voice is almost dead.

It’s not a question. But, pulling back, Enjolras answers it anyway.

From the first press of their lips, Grantaire’s mouth is hot and desperate on his. For a moment, Enjolras thinks about protocol and laws and just how much this is absolutely not okay – but then Grantaire is wrapping his fingers into the collar of Enjolras’ scrubs and sweeping his tongue across his lower lip, and he forgets to care.

Grantaire’s hair is long and tangled, and Enjolras’ hands get perfectly locked in it as he runs them around and pulls Grantaire closer. The resulting groan makes his stomach drop several feet and thank God he’s already on his knees, because they would not have been able to hold him up. He presses Grantaire further back into the chair, and scrambles around, practically on his lap, and then there’s a hiss from Grantaire - oh God, that sound should be _illegal_ – and he kisses him and kisses him, kisses him like he’s drowning. Maybe he is, because he certainly can’t breathe and there are _waves_ crashing over him, and Grantaire’s hands are clawing at every inch of skin and Enjolras is _letting him_.

Enjolras is a professional. He doesn’t do this. Ever. Patients are patients, even friendship has to remain strictly casual because nobody stays here forever, either they leave cured or they don’t get better at all. Either way, getting to know them only ever ends badly. Right now, every nerve in his brain is screaming at him to get his head together and _stop_ , because one way or another Grantaire will be gone before long and there’s no way around that fact, not to mention that this is probably breaking multiple laws and violating every health code the hospital has – but the rest of him is shouting right back at his brain to _shut the fuck up_ because Enjolras can’t remember the last time anything felt this good. For the first time in years, there is skin under his hands, and it’s warm and soft and giving and he takes it, he takes everything he can get, letting out every infuriation he’s ever felt towards this man and all the guilt he’s bottled up from him. He feels Grantaire hook a leg up behind him, and has just realised that he honestly doesn’t give two shits how far this is going to go even if they are in a fucking hospital consultation room, when the door bangs open.

Enjolras leaps up like the chair is on fire, and Grantaire’s head whips around. Joly stands in the doorway, holding a packet of pills and wearing an expression of complete and utter shock. All three of them are frozen, staring at each other solidly, and Enjolras would try to explain but even if Joly hadn’t seen everything, the swollen lips and wrecked hair would have filled him in on the details pretty quickly.

Eventually, after an incredibly long and awkward silence, Joly’s arm moves slightly and he twitches his head down.

“I – um – so I have your vit- your vitamins,” he croaks, gesturing the pills. Grantaire glances up at Enjolras, who nods almost imperceptibly, and replies, “Thanks,” in a voice that’s still so wrecked with desire Enjolras feels an overwhelming urge to pin him down again and take him for everything that he’s got, without a care for Joly’s presence. But then Grantaire forces himself up and almost staggers towards Joly, taking the packet from him without a word and pushing the door open.

The second it closes behind him, Joly turns on the spot and says,

“Erm… so what the actual fuck did I just see?”

Enjolras just falls into the chair, numbly staring into space as he runs his hands through his hair. Joly hesitantly sits across from him, eyes lingering on his creased scrubs and bitten lips.

“Hey - ‘Jolras? Was this…” Joly trails off for a moment, looking slightly terrified of the glazed look in Enjolras’ eyes. “Is this, like, a regular thing? Like, when he comes in for check ups, do you just… Oh my god, you aren’t actually _sleeping_ with him or anything, are you?”

Enjolras snaps his head up. He’s still distant, but he knows at some point he’s going to wish he’d explained to Joly, so he decides now is probably going to be the best time even as he runs his fingertips across his lips.

“No,” he says slowly. His voice is clouded with a sort of broken wonder. “No, we aren’t sleeping together.”

Joly breathes a sigh of relief. “Good, man. I mean, if Lamarque had come in and seen you fucking some guy in here – a _patient_ – but hang on, do you mean you’re still, like, seeing him?”

Enjolras shakes his head, thoughtful. “That was the first – I haven’t - ”

“Because I _know_ you like him, I’ve seen you stare at him when you’re supposed to be measuring vitals and testing blood samples – to be honest, it was quite funny – the hospital’s rising star, the resident workaholic nothing-gets-between-me-and-the-job doctor reduced to a crushing teenage girl - ”

“Joly.” His voice is quiet, but authoritative. It means he’s being serious. Joly is silent immediately. “I don’t – I think someone else should observe his next appointment. Get Bahorel to take my place. Please. Grantaire is - he’s going through some stuff and I’m worried I might accidentally – take advantage.”

Joly looks worried, but he just notes it down and says, “Yeah. Yeah, he should be cool with that.” He gets up to leave, but he doesn’t say anything about Enjolras having to go. Just as he opens the door, he turns his head and says,

“Before you go blaming yourself for anything, as usual, make sure you think it through, yeah?” Then he’s gone, and Enjolras is sat alone in the consultation room with the memory of Grantaire’s lips still ghosting over his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep, I hope it wasn't too awful or anything - I swear to God, none of this plot was planned, it just sort of happened and I have no idea where it's going from now on - but if you're enjoying it, stick along for the ride! Next chapter should be up soon :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, wow. You're all fucking angels. Thank you so much for your comments, every single one of them was lovely and you're all lovely and asdgkraawyivfkhgfda;;l  
> Here's the new chapter - I guess read the warnings in the tags, guys, seriously.

It’s exactly four hours until Enjolras sees Grantaire again.

Four hours.

He isn’t an idiot. He knows how these things work. And even if his romantic history isn’t exactly abundant with references, he is well aware that when somebody in a position of trust practically fucking _assaults_ you during a confidential consultation, you are well within your rights to run away as fast as you can and not return for a considerable length of time. A considerable length of time being, by his estimate, somewhere between two weeks to about five years.

But _four fucking hours_.

His first instinct upon seeing Grantaire stumble into reception is to laugh, and then to run and hide in a cupboard somewhere lost within the depths of the hospital corridors. He’s still in a state of shock from this morning, and the only reason he’s actually even in the foyer is to receive a thorough telling off from Cosette for mucking up all of the paperwork he was supposed to give in this morning, and sort it out properly for her. He’s dropped all of it behind the counter now, of course, because this is ridiculous. He can’t be expected to have come up with a ‘hey-how-are-you-yeah-I’m-totally-cool-just-acting-natural-and-stuff’ routine within the given space of time. It’s completely impossible. He hasn’t even had the chance to get nervous at the prospect of seeing Grantaire, he’s too busy being annoyed about this breach of his rights, and it doesn’t even cross his mind that something might be wrong until Grantaire’s eyes lock on his from across the room and broadcast such a deep and primitive panic that his heart jolts up into his throat. The torn sleeve of Grantaire’s hoodie is stained, and he leans limply against the wall, clearly trying to catch his breath. Enjolras knows an emergency when he sees it, and he’s across the room before he knows what he’s doing.

“What happened?” His tone is brisk and authoritative as he reaches out a professional hand to prevent Grantaire’s heaving form collapsing. A hand grapples with his bicep, clutches at him as those eyes stare at him widely and that mouth tries desperately to form words.

“Shitting fuck he’s – he’s in the car - please please _please,_ I didn’t mean - mean to leave it this long it’s Je–Jehan oh God please Enjolras _please_ -”

Enjolras looks around, spots Combeferre at the nurses’ station.

“Combeferre!”

The bespectacled man glances around, then widens his eyes and runs at Enjolras’ expression. He’s only been at the hospital for just over a year, but he was one of Enjolras’ interns and the best among them by far. Enjolras would trust him more than anyone else for this, even Joly.

“What’s going on?” Combeferre is by his side in seconds, helping to hold Grantaire up. “Sir, you’re going to have to tell me so I can - ”

“Outside,” gasps Grantaire, “In the blue Accord. I don’t know if he was even still _breathing_ , Jesus Christ - ”

Combeferre’s summoned two other nurses before Grantaire’s finished his first sentence, and together they head for the doors, one of them calling for a stretcher immediately. Enjolras, meanwhile, gathers up as much of Grantaire as he can and pulls him to one of the plastic waiting seats. The stains on the jacket smear the green of the chairs a dark reddish colour, and Enjolras’ single glance at it causes a jolt in the pit of his stomach.

“Grantaire, you need to tell me what’s happened, and you need to tell me as quickly as possible.”

Grantaire nods, wiping his face with both hands and staring upwards to prevent tears as much as he can.

“Oh my God, oh my _God_ , okay, I, um - I got back to my flat this morning, and I’d left Jehan at Courf’s so I thought he’d be alright, but he must’ve tried to get back home while I was here, y’know, because when I opened the door there was fucking _blood_ smeared all over the carpet and he was lying there in the living room and there was this great slit up his arm and these cuts all over his face and I don’t know where Montparnasse was, whether he did it or – oh Jesus fuck, mother of Christ this is not happening, Enjolras, he has to be all right, he _has_ to be - ”

His voice rises, and Enjolras signals to Cosette over at her desk, who immediately discards her pen and leaps to her feet. She fiddles with a drawer, and then hurries out with one of the red boxes that are kept behind the counter.

“Grantaire, Cosette’s going to administer a shot, this is just to calm you down, okay?”

Grantaire shakes his head, pushing at Cosette’s outstretched arm and clutching to the front of Enjolras’ scrubs.

“No, _no_ , you don’t fucking understand, he’s bleeding out in that car and – _JEHAN!_ ”

Combeferre and his fellow nurses are hurrying back through the door now, navigating a stretcher across the reception area to where a trolley is being prepared. Jean Prouvaire is difficult to see under the ties and braces, but the blood is seeping through the bandages along an arm and a pale hand hangs limp at the end. Running alongside the trolley is a tall girl, dark hair swinging behind her, her face blotchy with tears but set, and although he’s never met her, Enjolras is certain that this must be the infamous Eponine. The girl who’d managed to get Grantaire onto the detoxification course is clearly not one to be messed with - when Combeferre tries to tell her to wait, she merely shoots him a glare with eyes that threaten fucking _death_ and he has no time to respond, so simply sighs and nods. She follows them down a corridor and out of sight. Grantaire tries to get to his feet, shrieking, and as Enjolras wrestles and manages to forcefully pull him down he starts to cry, violent sobs wracking his body.

“Cosette,” Enjolras says urgently, and she skilfully tugs up a sleeve, inserts the needle and pushes the plunger down before Grantaire even realises what she’s doing. He jerks his arm back, but it’s too late, and within seconds he lets it droop, opting instead to surge forwards and cry openly onto Enjolras’ chest.

“Go and check what’s going on,” he mouths at Cosette, who nods and hurries off in the direction of the emergency rooms. Shifting his arms, he tries to ignore just how shockingly aware he is of Grantaire’s form stretched across his body, because this is _not the time_ , and although his nerves practically scream at the loss of contact, he manages to pull him back up and steer his weight back against the chair. Grantaire’s eyes are shut but the tears still leak out, and although the drugs can’t possibly have completely kicked in yet, he’s stopped screaming and instead just takes long, shuddering breaths. His dark curls move as he shakes, and his pale hands scrape at the sides of the chair. It’s sickeningly captivating, and Enjolras can’t drag his eyes away even as he speaks.

“Cosette’s gone to find out what’s happening. Grantaire, if you want, we can go to another room, somewhere with less people - ” and oh shit, because that totally didn’t just sound like he’s planning to drag him off and molest him again in some back room “ – you know, you can deal with it in private.”

Grantaire’s nod is almost imperceptible, and his arms tremble as he tries to pull himself up. Enjolras attempts to hook his arms under the other man’s, but they’re pushed away – not harshly, but firmly.

“No, I’m alright.”

He stumbles upwards, and Enjolras guides him across the reception and down a side corridor. He deliberately steers them away from the last consultation room, wanting to avoid as much awkwardness as he can, and instead directs Grantaire into another, more spacious one usually reserved for families with small children.

Grantaire practically collapses onto the sofa, one hand clapped to the deep red beanie on top of his wild curls, the other touching his mouth. It’s so reminiscent of how Enjolras had behaved after Grantaire had left this morning, and it causes a weird sort of ache deep within his chest. Before it gets the chance to resonate through the rest of him, he takes a seat next to his friend and assumes the most neutral stance he possibly can when the rage of emotions whirling through him are considered. Grantaire doesn’t move for a minute, his face a frozen mask with solidly glazed eyes. Enjolras knows from years of experience that when it comes to this, sometimes silence is the best treatment, so he sits there and waits for Grantaire to break the quiet when he wants to.

It lasts for a long time.

The air is as still as a millpond when the first pebble, a flicker of the eyes from Grantaire, is thrown into it and sends a ripple throughout the room. Slowly, he sits up, and levels face to face with Enjolras. He doesn’t break eye contact, and the web of veins in them form an incredible, intricate pattern of crimson. It’s so real and harsh that it takes Enjolras’ breath away.

Grantaire’s voice is cracked and quiet when he speaks.

“I think he did it to himself.”

It’s something Enjolras had suspected – being a doctor does eventually give you a reasonably sharp instinct about these things – but it still breaks his heart to see the pain in Grantaire’s eyes.

“Yes. I think he did too.”

His resolve almost remains intact, but one small twitch of his eye and Enjolras knows that any hope Grantaire had been clinging to has just fluttered away in the wind.

“I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shifts slightly where he sits, twisting his body around to face Enjolras’. He moved forwards, moving his legs so that they’re crossed beneath him, and nods.

“So am I. But thank you.”

He is so close. His voice is a whisper, and Enjolras can’t breathe.

“Why would he, Enjolras?” The desperation is tangible.

Remember what’s happening, remember where you are, remember why he’s here, remember your fucking job…

His own voice is hoarse as he replies,

“Grantaire, I honestly don’t know.” Breathe. “There could be so many reasons.” Breathe.

“It’s because of his poetry, isn’t it? And what Montparnasse did to it. It’s part of him, you know, ripping those pages out ripped bits of him out too,” says Grantaire softly, and his eyes are wet, and suddenly there’s a violent spark of electricity as his fingertips touch Enjolras’. It’s barely anything, barely anything at all, but every nerve in his body is suddenly on fire.

“I’ve known him for so long, he was always my best friend. He always will be. I _can’t_ let him hurt himself, Enjolras.”

“You won’t. We won’t. There’s help out there, Grantaire, it’s what I do everyday. He’ll be o-”

Grantaire cuts him off by leaning forwards and pressing the most gentle kiss to his lips, and there’s nothing but softness for a long moment. Then he moves back and looks at him for a long moment, and right now Enjolras would swear by anything under the sun that nothing has ever been this quiet before.

All of a sudden, a phone lets out a shrill noise, and Enjolras starts as Grantaire’s hands fly to a pocket. Pulling out a slender mobile, he scans the screen with a sort of desperation, and then closes his eyes in what Enjolras _prays_ is relief.

“Enjolras, he’s stable.”

He didn’t hear Cosette come in. When did she come in?

Grantaire’s face is impossible to read.

Turning around, he sees her stood at the door, tendrils of long blonde hair escaping her bun and an expression that doesn’t suggest she’s seen anything out of the ordinary.

“Good,” he manages to say, and glances back. “Grantaire, do – do you want to…”

Grantaire gets to his feet, slowly, and begins to walk towards the door. It’s silent, still, and now the silence is unbearable, so Enjolras gets up too and begins to discuss stats that he’s really already guessed with Cosette as they head out to find Jehan. The hustle and bustle of the corridor is a blessed relief, and before long the heavy door of the emergency room is in front of them. Cosette reaches for the handle and, gripping it in hand, turns to face Grantaire.

“You should know he’s in a pretty bad state, and he might not look quite the same as he normally does. It’s perfectly normal to experience shock, at this point, and you don’t have to stay in there for any longer than you want to.”

Of course, Grantaire tells her to open the door, and Enjolras has been in this situation with patients enough times to know that once he goes in, Grantaire won’t want to leave. No matter what Jean Prouvaire looks like. They never do.

Cosette pushes, and the door swings open. Enjolras briefly notices Combeferre sat close to Eponine and talking in a quiet, professional voice as she wipes her face and nods. Then his gaze is redirected to Jehan, and _fuck_ , he’s seen this a thousand times before but it doesn’t make it any less horrible.

Jean Prouvaire’s face is swollen, covered in roughly cut welts and slashes. It’s utterly unrecognisable from the slight, gentle flesh of the man he’d gotten to know, and it’s sickeningly jarring to see this warped difference. His arm is bandaged and covered, but the length and thickness of the white wrapping tells Enjolras everything he needs to know about how badly that particular slice had cut. There will be pus seeping out before long.

When he glances over, he sees that Grantaire is staring at his friend not in shock, but with a sort of weary acceptance, and maybe he knows more about Jehan’s issues than he’s letting on, because he doesn’t look angry or frightened or stunned, he just looks – sad. Like he’s prepared for this. Like he was expecting it.

“Did he do it?”

Combeferre looks up, and puts a hand on Eponine’s shoulder before moving over slowly, pushing his glasses back up his long nose as he joins them at the foot of the bed.

“We can’t know for certain - ”

“Did he do it?”

“Like I said, we can’t be certain. But, from what we can see so far… I’m so sorry, but it does look like the injuries were self inflicted.”

Eponine’s pretty features pinch, and she looks a little bit like she’s going to be sick. That’s not uncommon; Enjolras has seen it enough times.

“We’re keeping him in this room, he’s not going anywhere, and we’re going to monitor him for at least a week. He’s going to be safe here, I can promise you that, and you’ll be able to see him daily. But I’m afraid we can’t provide for you, there isn’t any way you can stay here – I know it’s not pleasant, but you are going to have to say goodbye to him for the time being.”

Grantaire moves around and leans across the bed, then picks up the loose strands of hair fanned across the side of the pillow. He plaits them with a gentleness that Enjolras has only ever seen in him during that last kiss, and then he _smiles_.

“He looks better now. He’d kill me if I left him in that state,” he says, and he doesn’t sound broken any more. “’Ponine, come on, we’ve got to let these guys do their thing.”

She makes an affirmative sound, and gets to her feet. “You better fucking take care of him,” she warns, and Enjolras is astonished to see that Combeferre actually lets himself smile at her.

“We will.”

Right at that second, the door is shoved open, and Joly appears, slightly breathless. Enjolras knows that he and Jehan had become quite the team during Grantaire’s hospital stint, and the look on his face slides from horror to relief at the sight of the bed. Joly trusts the machines in this hospital more than most of the doctors, and the sound of their regular beeping is enough to put a faint smile on his face. Glancing at Enjolras, he holds the door open for Eponine and Grantaire, then nods towards it.

“See them out then, ‘Jolras?”

Enjolras looks up at him with a confused expression, and then rolls his eyes at the sight of Joly’s raised eyebrows.

“You, my friend, are an asshole,” he informs him as he puts a hand on the door. “Make sure these guys are keeping him under the strictest observation, understand?”

Joly smiles at him weakly. “Nothing we can’t handle, eh?”

Outside in the corridor, Grantaire is holding Eponine to his chest, and stroking her hair.

“I’m sorry you had to see this, ‘Ponine, I really am - ”

She cuts him off with sharp words and a gentle slap to the face.

“Shut the fuck up, it was my dick move with Mon – with that wanker. Just don’t give me another reason to have to come back here, okay?”

Grantaire nods, and manages a smile. She pulls his hat off, jamming it on her own head and brushing his curls into something more manageable. It’s such a private moment that for a second Enjolras feels he should maybe slip away, let them be – but then Eponine spots him, and strides over.

“So you’re the one I have to thank for keeping my idiot brother alive?”

Enjolras is startled at her outright attitude, and stutters a “Well, I…”

“I’ve gotta say, congrats and shit – I swear to God, if I had a quid for every time I tried to convince him to drop the booze, I’d be a hell of a lot more than a rich woman.”

Enjolras’ eyes flicker to Grantaire, who stares defiantly back at him. There’s something in his eyes that Enjolras can’t quite place, something he’s trying to communicate, and all of a sudden he very much needs to be alone with him.

Grantaire seems to understand. He hedges, and then taps the still-talking Eponine on the shoulder.

“Listen, ’Ponine, I’m just going to, like, have a chat with the doctor. About, um, my course, you know, because of my fucking everything up and all. Do you mind heading back to the car?”

She stops talking, annoyance flashing across her face before something that looks far too understanding for Enjolras’ liking replaces it. Sending what looks very much like a smug grin Grantaire’s way, she heads back down the corridor.

Grantaire’s dark eyes follow her until she is out of sight, and then he lets out a long sigh, running his hands through his hair. Enjolras wants very much to speak, but he fights against the instinct, crossing his arms and waiting. He leans back against the wall, knowing as he does so that his attempt to look casual is failing rather spectacularly.

There’s silence, and Enjolras is sick of that today. When Grantaire meets his eyes, he actually goes so far as to open his mouth, but the quiet is broken before he can manage to make a sound.

“Okay, I’m just going to say this quickly, because otherwise I’ll never get it out properly, and I’m not a genius with words or anything, not by far – I just need you to tell me if everything’s fallen to shit after today, because otherwise I don’t think I’ll be able to stay away, and you should know that, because I’m no good at stopping things and you do know that and Jesus, I’m the most cynical person on the fucking planet and I hate people on principle, but you won’t fucking stop _existing_ and helping me and no one’s ever been like that before for me, _no one_ , so if you could just tell me then that would really be great.”

Grantaire doesn't take a breath throughout, and his face is completely open when he's done.

Enjolras stays very still for a moment, processing in the way he always does. And then, very slowly, he reaches out and takes Grantaire’s hand.

“I don’t actually know you.”

“No. You don’t.” Grantaire’s reply is blunt, and his eyes are searching.

“I know your stats and your vitals and what you look like during a major operation, but I don’t know _you_.”

Grantaire steps closer, and they’re in each other’s breathing spaces now, and Enjolras has to pull him back into another room for a _third_ _time_ , Christ, because the way he’s feeling right now would not result in a great impression on the staff should he choose to openly act upon his instincts right there in the corridor.

“I want you to,” Grantaire whispers once they’re inside, and it sends a thrill to Enjolras’ bones. “I really, really want you to.”

Enjolras knows he could say, “So do I,” and if he did he would definitely mean it. But Grantaire’s face is obscenely close, and all he can register is that there are other, far more important things for his mouth to be doing right now. Grantaire’s back hits the door with a thud, and their veins are on fire, and Enjolras kisses him hard until the only thing he can comprehend is the endless, consuming sensation of Grantaire’s lips reshaping his again and again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God I am the most inaccurate author alive, and my knowledge of hospital procedure is so minute that I can't understand why no one's called me out on it yet. Aah well.  
> I'm sorry for hurting Jehan, it hurt me to do it, but he's gonna have a better time of it soon. I promise. My friend made me promise not to kill him off, this was a close one guys.  
> I love you all, and hey, if you fancy a chat then PLEASE come and visit me at martiansarepeopletoo on tumblr, I don't bite and you all seem freaking amazeballs so okay there you go


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, so I'm really sorry it's been a couple of weeks since my last update, school being pissy and all that - I TRY (OH MY GOD DO I TRY)  
> Okay, here you go, I'll stop rambling, this isn't even that exciting, oh my god, this chapter has been so hard to write, and I don't know WHY ffjskdsf I am so sorry

Jehan’s bedsheets are crisp and white beneath Enjolras’ fingertips, just like all the others in the hospital. They’ve been changed since yesterday. Probably Combeferre, he can’t stand seeing stained sheets any longer than necessary, and Enjolras is glad for it. Today will be hard enough without the added horror of that blood burning into everybody’s eyes, the blood they all know was spilled in a biting, twisting moment of self-hatred, because today they have to find out why it was done.

The machines have kept up their steady, unfeeling beeping throughout the night, and their most loyal trustee is slumped in a chair beside them with an empty coffee cup dangling from his limp hand. Enjolras smiles at Joly’s slumbering form for a moment, and then notices the clock on the wall shows a time of 07:34. Just under half an hour until the visitors are allowed in. He brushes the last creases out of the sheets, then skirts the edge of the bed and drops down in the chair next to Joly’s. From this vantage point, it’s no difficulty at all to lean in very close and whisper, _“Joly, that E. coli outbreak you suspected’s been confirmed,” _and then chuckle in satisfaction at the horrified jolt and panicked expression from next to him. A moment, and then the death glare, which is so utterly childlike he can’t keep upright through the laughter.__

__“You, my friend, are an asshole, and I fully expect free coffee for the week as recompense.”_ _

__Enjolras doesn’t speak for a moment or two, letting his shoulders rise and fall as he waits for the giggles to dissipate, and then says,_ _

__“Joly, you do know you don’t even have to pay for coffee.”_ _

__“Look, if you want unsanitary, spoon-out-of-the-communal-jar instant crap, then that’s fine by me, you do what you want, but some of us prefer to provide the better stuff for our bodies – which, by the way, are the only one’s we’re ever going to possess, and should therefore be treated with the utmost respect and care.”_ _

__Getting to his feet, Enjolras shakes his head as he offers his hand._ _

__“Well, is it at all possible for me to ask for this walking holy temple to migrate three rooms down? There’s a drunken fifteen-year-old waiting for stitches, walked into a car door on her way to prove she could drive, so if you could get on that it’d be fabulous.”_ _

__Joly rolls his eyes as he always does, and then takes Enjolras’ outstretched hand and pulls himself up. As he gathers his white coat and picks up his board, he sends a swift glance in the direction of the still-sleeping Jehan._ _

__“Make sure that Courfeyrac guy gets in. I have a feeling he’ll do more good than anyone else right now, and try to keep the crying to a minimum, yeah?”_ _

__“I have dealt with AS cases before, Joly - ” Enjolras begins, but he’s cut off._ _

__“Not for a while. You were never all that good at the more personal cases, ‘Jolras, and that’s not an insult – but this is important, okay?”_ _

__He nods, because it’s true, and then Joly leaves. Enjolras catches the door before it swings shut, sticking his head out into the corridor to check for any lingering nurses, and then darts across to the walk-in-cupboard around the corner. It’s one of the older ones, rarely used and storing nothing more important than spare sheets, so it takes a few tugs to get it open. An ear-grating screech resonates throughout the corridor as the hinges move, and he stiffens for a second to look around again, but nobody’s appeared at his side and demanded to know what he’s doing, so he takes a deep breath and opens it fully._ _

__Grantaire lies sprawled on the floor, and for God’s sake, this is ridiculous, he’d left him _seven minutes ago _.___ _

____“Wake up.” It’s more of a hiss than he means it to be, but he does have to be quiet, and he directs a substantial nudge to Grantaire’s leg. When this does nothing but cause a worryingly loud snore from the sleeping man, Enjolras rolls his eyes and crouches down, taking hold of shoulders and shaking them hard. The result is a stream of grumbling moans, and Grantaire blearily blinks open eyes heavy with sleep as he rolls over and meets Enjolras’ gaze._ _ _ _

____“Asshole, I was asleep - ”_ _ _ _

____“Seven minutes!” Enjolras cuts him off with a voice that’s loaded with incredulity. “I left you for seven minutes! I swear to God it isn’t even _possible _to fall asleep in that time - ”___ _ _ _

______“Fuck you, yes it is, I got up at 5.30 this morning to get to a hospital that won’t even let me see my friend for another half an hour, what else was I supposed to do? You  
buggered off!”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I told you, I can get you in earlier, I just had to get rid of Joly first – but tomorrow, maybe wait for visiting hours to actually start, yeah? I’m telling you, I won’t let you in if I get you knocking on my office window again, Jesus Christ.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Grantaire throws an exasperated glance his way, before rubbing his eyes as he leans up, and then resting back on his elbows, looking up at Enjolras through strands of his dark fringe. His hair is explosive at the best of times, but this morning it’s completely crazed, corkscrew curls flying in every direction. Enjolras can still feel them between his fingers, and the memory of how hard he’d tugged on them the previous day causes a blush to steal across his cheeks. Grantaire grins when he notices, most probably thinking of the same thing. His eyes flicker to Enjolras’ lips and back up again._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Well, somebody’s having thoughts.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Shut up, we didn’t actually do anything,” replies Enjolras in attempt at a light voice, and he leans back a little, although the blush doesn’t leave his cheeks. “Besides, I thought you were here to see Jehan?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Well, of course. But now that you’ve got me thinking - ”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Incorrigible,” smiles Enjolras, “absolutely incorrigible. Do you want to see him or not?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Grantaire nods slowly and his grin widens as he follows it up with, “Yeah. I do. But I’m fairly sure even he wouldn’t begrudge me a minute or so,” and surges forwards._ _ _ _ _ _

______It’s no less mind blowing than the first kiss of yesterday. Enjolras gives as good as he’s getting, which for the record is pretty fucking incredible._ _ _ _ _ _

______When they’re on their feet and he’s pressed so hard against the shelves that he’s actually fairly sure he’s got a couple of splinters, the beep of his pager pulls them back to reality and, reluctantly, apart from each other. He tries to even his breathing as he fumbles in his pocket, but Grantaire is standing _so fucking close _and getting hold of it is proving to be just a little on the difficult side. It turns out to be Joly, which probably means it’s far less of a disaster than the urgent beeping implies, but he has to get it anyway.___ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’ve got to go… but it’s five to, no one’s going to kick you out if you sneak in there now.” He tries to keep his voice steady._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’m on it,” murmurs Grantaire, his nose brushing Enjolras’, but instead of leaning in he waits for a moment and then steps backwards, smiling. “Go on then, go save some hopeless drug addicts or whatever it is you do.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Enjolras steps towards him until he’s back and invasive in Grantaire’s personal space, because two can play at this game, and then turns to brush past at the last minute. At the door, he stops, and then looks around as if just remembering something. “Oh, and once he finds you in there, make sure don’t let Combeferre whine at you too much, okay? He’ll just get pissed at me, and he can throw one major strop when he wants to.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________***_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Joly’s ‘emergency’ turns out to be the patient after the drunken teenager – a young girl with a broken wrist, who’s sneezed _three whole times _during the cast setting, and whom Joly doesn’t want to have to go near more than necessary for the time being. “According to my usual website, there’s a higher than normal number of new flu strains running rampant in this area right now, and although I’ve had all the appropriate vaccinations, obviously, I thought maybe instead you could…”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Enjolras just rolls his eyes and claps a hand to Joly’s shoulder, and then tends to the nine year old, who blessedly does not cry but sits with a stony expression as he finishes the final layer of her cast. She nods as he tells her what to do with it next, and then gives him a very formal thank you._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“No, thank you, for being such a grown up through that,” grins Enjolras, managing to wrangle a crack of a smile from her, before her mother leads her out of the room.  
Joly sneaks back in after a while, evidently satisfied that the number of bacteria in the room is at a safe enough level. Glancing around to check the coast is clear, he straightens up, and makes an attempt at a casual saunter towards Enjolras._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“So.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Enjolras doesn’t need to look up, because the tone of Joly’s voice is painfully obvious._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Yes, Joly?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“A certain somebody not a million miles away from me right now was suspiciously absent from duties for an awfully long time last night.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“And what exactly are you trying to imply?” he asks, but his tone is light, because Joly is the sort of person who understands these situations._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“We’ve known each other for a while, Enjolras, so I’m going to be blunt with you. All I’m going to ask is that if sex did indeed occur, I need all of the juicy details right this second, and if it did not, I’m going to need all of the juicy details the second it inevitably does.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He tries really hard to keep his expression unimpressed and cold, but a smile flickers across his face before he can stop it and Joly’s eyes widen excitedly. He sits up, incredulous._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Did you _actually _sleep with him this time? Did you, oh my _God _, you - ”_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Enjolras shakes his head quickly. Joly tries hard to hide his disappointment._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“It isn’t like – a thing. It’s not a thing, Joly. It’s just - ”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“A thing,” replies Joly with a smaller smile. “I get it. Well, if you want this ‘thing’ to develop any further, you’re going to have to do more than just aggressively attack his  
mouth every so often. Not that I’m saying getting off with you wouldn’t be utterly _sensational _\- ” he holds up a hand at Enjolras’ stutter – “but come on, your history isn’t exactly littered with well-functioning relationships, is it?”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Enjolras can’t deny it. To be honest, the depth of what’s going on scares him a bit (a lot), and whenever that happens he usually reverts to downplaying._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Christ, Joly, it’s not like we’ve even talked outside of the hospital.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Just saying,” says Joly. “I swear to God I won’t get involved again or anything, I’m just getting your back – you’d probably end up killing each other anyway, but you even liking someone is such a freaking rarity, I felt like I had to intervene. Anyway, right now you’d better get your ass up off that floor, we’ve got to go and help your boyfriend  
get his flatmate to talk about things.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Enjolras’ heart plummets several feet at the prospect._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________***_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________When they get to Jehan’s room, Grantaire is sat next to him with a vacant look in his eyes. Jean Prouvaire is still asleep, but a glance at the monitors tells Enjolras that it’s a natural one. He’ll wake up pretty soon; all of the anaesthetics have worn off. Hanging loosely off the edge of the bed is his plait, strands of hair still clumsily looped together, and Grantaire’s fingertips are absently brushing along the ends._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“How are you doing?” asks Joly gently, and Enjolras is relieved to find there’s no hint of mockery in his voice. Whatever his shortcomings, he’s always been good at  
detaching the personal from the professional._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Grantaire nods slowly. “Yeah, good. Just want to talk to him, is all.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________His eyes meet Enjolras’ for a moment, but there’s no layered meaning there, just tiredness. Enjolras smiles at him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“He should be awake in no time.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________And sure enough, not long after Combeferre and a couple of other nurses check in, Enjolras hears the sheets shift and turns around at a muffled groaning sound.  
Grantaire leans forward as Jehan’s eyes blearily flutter open._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Alright?” he half smiles, his voice cracking._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Oh, Grantaire, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes this morning,” mutters Jehan, rolling over slightly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________The room is silent, waiting. Jehan’s got to be the first to speak. Pressure never works in these situations._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Eventually, he just sighs._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Go on, then. Ask me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Grantaire looks as though he’s trying very hard to restrain himself from crying, and Enjolras can see the lump he’s trying to swallow. Obviously, Jean Prouvaire will want to  
talk to Grantaire above any of the doctors, but this is a lot harder than normal for Enjolras – he’s usually so detached, and today he’s about as far from that as is possible. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________So it only takes about half the time it usually would for him to step forwards and open his mouth, ready to ask in Grantaire’s stead._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Jehan, I’d just like you to know that nobody here is going to judge you. We just need you to tell us - ”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Suddenly, the door bursts open, and a young boy – because really, that’s what he is, he can’t be older than seventeen, surely – rushes into the room. His dark hair is mostly cut very short, but a long lock has been left to fall across his face, and he wears a worn yellow t-shirt with black skinny jeans. His bright green eyes are wide and panicked as his head whips around the room._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Jehan?!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Courf!” Grantaire springs to his feet. “Courf, I was going to call you later - ”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Jehan!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________The boy hurries around the side of the bed, grabbing Jehan’s hand and breathing hard._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“ _Shit _, Jehan! _Shit! _Why the hell didn’t you – oh my God – Jehan…”_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Jean Prouvaire moves his other hand to cover the one already clasping Courfeyrac’s, and winces. Although he is clearly in pain, the wince is followed by a wave of joy that crashes over his face and completely lights him up. Enjolras can hear Grantaire's voice in his head, _“See, Jehan’s got a crush on this guy called Courfeyrac," _and he wants to laugh out loud, because there are hundreds of words in the English language to describe so many different kinds of sentiment and for Grantaire to have picked 'crush' of all of them to describe they way Jehan is looking at Courfeyrac is suddenly the funniest thing in the world.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“You came,” he smiles, hoarsely. There are tears in his eyes, and one of them leaks out to slide down into his hair._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________"Of course I fucking came, you asshole, oh my God, of course I _came _..."___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Courfeyrac is crying, and clutching his hand tightly. Jehan’s face screws up too, and the change is enough to jerk Enjolras back into reality. This is not for them to witness, not for him or any of the other doctors._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“Joly, Combeferre – shall we, um, let these guys visit their friend in peace?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Combeferre raises his head and his clipboard, clearly about to list all of the things they have to get out of Jehan first, but Joly silences him with a look._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“Yeah, let's. Things to do. Come on.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________He heads out of the door without a backward glance. Combeferre stares incredulously for a second, and shifts his gaze to Enjolras, who nods. Combeferre rolls his eyes to the ceiling, scribbles something on his papers, and then takes the door handle that Joly holds open. Following him out, Enjolras halts at the door and turns around to see Courfeyrac (who, he now remembers, is not actually seventeen, but in fact the same age as Grantaire – oh come on, someone that small, it was an easy mistake to make) with his arms around Grantaire’s neck, shaking silently as he sobs into his shoulder. Grantaire’s eyes are shut, and he’s saying something to Courfeyrac in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. Jehan just lies there, watching them - watching Courfeyrac – and his eyes are swimming. It’s a little bit heartbreaking._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________He realises then, in that second, that he really does know nothing about these people and their private sadnesses. It upsets him more than it should._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Enjolras blinks once, and then walks out of the door, leaving them to it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A WILD COURFEYRAC APPEARS!  
> Yeah, so I'm kind of love with what he looks like in this and his character is basically just going to be everything I want in a man, so there you go  
> I hope it wasn't too boring (EXCITINGNESS NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE)  
> I love you all :))  
> ALSO SERIOUSLY you should come and talk to me at martiansarepeopletoo on tumblr because if you are actually reading this then I need to love you a lot and smother you with blankets and chocolatey goodness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, dudes, I got another chapter for you here :) not too heavy on the e/R (i'm sooorrrrrryyyy) but there will be plenty next chapter, fear not! Not 100% about this one to be honest, but it wasn't writing itself so I decided to just put it out there and have a go. Sorry about the wait, and here you go!

Enjolras first decided he wanted to be a doctor when he was six years old. Whenever someone fell over in the playground at school, or one of the quieter kids got on the wrong side of a bully, it was always him they came to for help. To begin with it was simply a game, playing doctor the way other children might play at shops or war. But eventually, the others grew out of these habits, and began to think of other things – the ones who had originally wanted to be ‘princesses’ now seemed to hold ‘hairdressing’ in higher esteem. And then, once they’d grown a bit more, they changed their minds again, and Enjolras had bid goodbye to his friends at the end of school as they headed off for jobs and degrees in law, languages, performing arts, business studies, environmental science – not one of them their original plan. But not him. Med school had always been the plan, and although his Sociology teacher had strongly urged him to consider a future in politics after hearing his impassioned discussions with his friends, he’d declined. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to change the world – he was just going to do it one patient at a time.

And now, he takes great pride in the knowledge that he saves lives every day. Not once, in his whole career, has he ever wanted to specialize – he wants to help everyone – and the range of people he has seen healed and saved is incredible. Yes, Enjolras has always been happy with his lot.

But not today.

Because today Jean Prouvaire is headed off for his first session with a psychiatric therapist, and Enjolras can’t be there.

The therapist in question is a relatively new addition to the hospital staff, Marius Pontmercy. He’s inexperienced compared to most but very enthusiastic, and Enjolras knows him to be talented in his field. To add to this, he’s engaged to Cosette, and has the general air of someone who has been handed a great deal of luck in life and isn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Enjolras had originally advised him to try general work before going into anything specific at the hospital, his qualifications weren’t going to disappear and the work would widen his experience greatly, but like all the new guys Marius had wanted to do his thing straight away and get to work _now._ Enjolras had smirked and shaken his head, sure this would be something the younger doctor would definitely regret in later months.

And now here he is, wanting nothing more than to be a specialist in psychiatric care, because like it or not Jehan is now his friend and he wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of him. He’s already spoken to Marius about how exactly he expects Jean Prouvaire to be treated, a conversation which had left his friend looking inherently terrified and Enjolras wondering if maybe a career in politics wouldn’t have been such a bad idea with argumentative skills such as these. He just hates not having control over these situations, and goddamn it, he doesn’t even understand why this is happening because he’s always been _so good_ at detaching himself.

True to his word, Joly has had Grantaire’s consultations switched from Enjolras’ timetable to Bahorel’s. He hates it, but if he’s honest with himself Enjolras knows that it’s the best thing for everyone involved – Grantaire can definitely make better progress when there’s no distractions (namely, no throwing people against walls and grinding like fucking teenagers), and this way Enjolras might actually be able to get his head sorted out without those piercing eyes waylaying his thoughts every time he tries to focus.

“Enjolras?”

He jumps out of his reverie, and turns to see Bossuet standing beside him with a look of slight concern on his face. Shaking his head, Enjolras looks down, because Bossuet is what you might call on the shorter side and there’s really no other way to look him in the eyes.

“Yes?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound sharp, but he’s never had the best filter and it isn’t like Bossuet’s caught him at the best time (only what a joke, because he’s been stood doing absolutely nothing for the past half an hour).

Bossuet gives him a look that could be interpreted as worried but, then again, could also mean he’s just a bit hungry. He’s that sort of person. “Just letting you know, man, you’re needed three beds down at the end, complex fracture and it really isn’t pretty. But if you’re zoning out like this I’ll get someone else on it, this isn’t something for someone who’s - ”

“No,” cuts in Enjolras, “no. No, I’m good, Dr. Lamarque’s just about had it up to here with me anyway, and I need to get back into his good books. Fracture? Whereabouts?”

Bossuet walks him down the corridor, feeding him stats and details, and Enjolras nods along, forcing himself to listen. It’s going to be a long day. He can tell.

***

The radio crackles as he drives into an area of crappy reception, and Enjolras fiddles with the dial with a frown on his face. Music blares between bursts of white noise, and mixed with the sound of rain pounding heavily across the windscreen, it’s giving him one hell of a headache. He gives up with the radio, pushing the power button with a sort of resignation, and sits back in his seat. His fingers drum on the wheel in irritation as he hits another lot of traffic - it’s only a fifteen-minute journey from the hospital to his flat, but he’s got a crapload of reports to write tonight before the interns get reviewed and he’d really rather finish them sooner than later. Besides, with the distraction of worry for Jehan and Grantaire, the day has felt particularly long, and now he just wants to get back and relax for a few minutes.

As the slight movement the queue had trickles into a complete standstill, he rolls his neck and looks out of the window. The windows are blurred with rain and weeks gone unwashed, and so it’s for this reason that he does a double take when he sees a small form huddled in a large red hoodie splashing along the pavement. He presses the button next to his elbow and sticks his head out, squinting as the rain falls into his eyes.

“Courfeyrac?”

The boy turns around at his name, eyes wandering for the source before he spots Enjolras.

“Oh, hey!” he replies, his usual smile spreading across his face despite the cold and wet, “you alright?”

Enjolras has gotten to know Courfeyrac reasonably well as well now – Jehan was admitted almost two weeks ago, and the boy has come in to visit every day with Grantaire. Enjolras knows they’re living together in Courfeyrac’s flat at the moment, what with the police investigation over Montparnasse and Grantaire’s own unwillingness to go back there after what happened with Jehan.

“Yeah, on my way home – um, do you need a lift? It’s bucketing down.”

Courfeyrac glances up to the grey sky, face screwed up, and then looks back down. He nods.

“Think I might take you up on that. I warn you now, I’ll drench your entire fucking car, man, but hey, you offered…”

He skirts around the back and practically throws himself into the passenger seat. He tugs his hood down once the door is shut, and shakes his hair out before stopping abruptly and staring at Enjolras.

“Um – sorry, it’s all over your seats - ”

“Seriously, it’s fine. I’ll stick the heating on, hang on.”

The ancient vents rattle to life, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes at the rush of hot air.

“Oh my god, you are a saint, I thought I was going to catch hypothermia and have to be rushed to the hospital – which would make three of us in about as many weeks, so no one would have wanted that.” He grins at Enjolras, who smiles back and then lets out a little cheer as the traffic finally starts to pick up again.

“So whereabouts d’you need dropping off?” he asks, narrowly missing a red light (he refuses to get stuck in that queue again).

“Oh, my place is down a couple of streets from the town hall – you know, where all of those roadworks’ve been clogging up the street. Where the pipe burst.”

Enjolras nods, he knows it. “That’s only just off from my place, I’ll drive past my building on the way.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything in reply, but Enjolras can _feel_ his gaze practically burning a hole in his face.

“What?”

A grin. “So you aren’t going to ask me?”

“Ask you what?” Enjolras is nonplussed.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he laughs, leaning forwards and widening his eyes, “you know exactly what I mean.”

“Courfeyrac, I can assure you that I really, really do _not_.”

Courfeyrac sits back, and this time his expression is incredulous.

“You’re shitting me. Seriously? No pathetically unsubtle, blatantly obvious attempts at asking me where Grantaire is?”

Enjolras keeps a completely cool exterior at this, although internally has been suddenly gripped with the need to swerve off of the road.

“Excuse me?”

“Come on. It’s pretty obvious.”

“I know where Grantaire is. I saw him today just as I was leaving, he was on a late visit to Jehan.”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows go up. “Well then. Somebody’s being a little over-casual.”

Enjolras splutters. “Over- no. I am sorry. But no. Not discussing this with you.”

“If you tell me it’s because of some oath or another, I swear to God…”

“Not. Discussing.”

Courfeyrac actually slumps backwards in a manner reminiscent of a toddler having a strop, and Enjolras has to suppress a laugh, despite the fact that his heart is still racing. Although he’d been incorrect in assuming Courfeyrac was seventeen at their initial meeting, he’s had enough conversations with him over the past couple of weeks to know that he certainly does not act twenty five years old most of the time.

He drops Courfeyrac back at his flat, a mere two streets away from his own, and pulls a U-turn at the end of the road before looping back round to get to his apartment. Thankfully, there’s a space outside, and he parks before hurrying up the stairs and pulling out his keys. When he gets to his door, he reaches out for the doorknob as he fumbles with the jangling keys. His flat is small and relatively cheap, he doesn’t see the point in frittering his money away on luxuries when there are a thousand other causes it could do much more good on, and so his door isn’t exactly the most expensive.

The doorknob itself is made of a pretty crappy metal. It gets hot really quickly.

He closes his hand around it, wrestling the other in his bag and at the same time trying not to drop his keys. He’s completely distracted, and so it takes a moment for him to notice that something’s wrong before a pain shoots up his arm and he involuntarily jerks it back.

Now, it’s not _scalding_ by any measure, but he is well used to opening this door and it’s significantly hotter than usual. He’s not an idiot. He works for the emergency services. He knows what this could easily mean. Immediately, his thoughts fly to all the work inside his flat, and panic sets in quicker that he would have imagined possible - his heart starts racing and his brain starts chanting at him, _no no no no no_ , and his hand is slippery with sweat as he reaches for the doorknob again.

When he does open the door, he is straight away hit by a wall of smoke. The room beyond is barely visible through the blanket of grey. His eyes screw up against the bitter fume of it, and he squints inside, hands up to protect his face.

This can’t be happening. Everything he _has_ is here. He doesn’t possess many things, on principle, but all of his work, half of his job is here, no no _no_ …

He can see a slight flickering in the corner of his eye, and his gaze redirects to the open door of the kitchen. It’s glowing a blurry orange through the grey fog, and he takes a step forwards involuntarily. As he does so, an unconsciously taken breath fills his lungs with smoke and he chokes, staggering back and retching.

“Enjolras?!”

He turns around, blinking tears brought by the smoke from his eyes. On the landing, he can just make out Mrs Hucheloup from the flat next door. Her hands are pressed to her ears, and he realises the building alarm’s gone off.

He tries to get his legs to move, but they don’t seem to want to.

“Enjolras, we have to get outside!”

He can feel her tugging on his arm, and he spins his head back round to see the open door again. The smoke is pouring out.

“ _Outside!_ ”

There are other people on the stairs as they hurry down, Enjolras tripping every few steps. He feels guilty looking at them. It’s his fault, after all.

They all huddle on the pavement as the fire department arrive. Mrs Hucheloup won’t leave his side, and he has to admit he’s grateful for it – she might be an over-protective, fussy old woman, but she takes everyone in the building under her wing and he’d probably end up wandering out into the middle of the road if she wasn’t clinging to him. The firemen spend about 20 minutes in the building before coming out to let people know the situation. Most of the apartments are fine, and the residents head back up – a little shaken, but they’ll be okay. Mrs Hucheloup is clear too, but she plants herself firmly next to him when they tell Enjolras he’ll have to stay somewhere else for a while.

He manages to shake her off for a moment and heads over to his car. He’s not driving anywhere, not yet – he supposes he’ll have to call Joly, or someone – but it’s comforting to sit among some of his own things. They might be all he’s got left, after all, he’s got no idea what state his flat’ll be in now that the fire’s out. Most of it will have been at least smoke damaged, he supposes.

He sits there for a few minutes, and he’s surprised by how calm he is. Right now, he’s not even particularly fussed about the work. To be honest, he’s mostly just pissed off at the thought of all the paperwork he’ll have to do.

He’s snapped out of it by the sound of a sharp rapping on the window. Looking up, he starts, because it’s _Courfeyrac_. The face that greets him is suitably worried, but underlying is that familiar smirk that seems to lie across his face at all times.

Enjolras open his car door, and Courfeyrac sticks his head in.

“Hey,” he smiles, “so. So. Somebody said something about a fire a couple of streets away, so I came round, my mate lives on floor 3 – I’m guessing it was your flat?”

Enjolras nods, numbly.

“Well,” Courfeyrac nods back, “well.”

“Yep.”

Courfeyrac slides into the seat, and they sit there. It goes very quiet.

Enjolras can see Mrs Hucheloup craning her neck to look at him, and he can just make out her words – running something along the lines of ‘absolutely fine if you want to kip on my sofa, dear’. He smiles and nods at her to quiet her down, and a fireman begins to urge her back towards the building.

“You’ll be needing somewhere to stay, then.” Courfeyrac says.

“Yeah. Probably call Joly, or Combeferre or someone.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and shifts in his seat so they’re face to face.

“Yeah. Right. Or you could drive about three metres and, you know, stay at ours.”

Enjolras’ eyes go wide, and he turns his head.

“ _No!”_ He surprises himself with the force behind it.

“Well, why not?” asks Courfeyrac, his eyes widening as well. “I’ve got a decent enough sofa bed, it’s just as close to the hospital as your place, Grantaire’ll be there - ”

At the mention of Grantaire’s name, Enjolras chokes. “I – no - it would be _completely_ inappropriate, you – you’re _patients_ \- ”

“I’m not a patient - ”

“ – and anyway, I couldn’t impose on you like that - ”

“Oh for God’s sake, stop _talking_ , will you, we all know it’s the best option. Grantaire isn’t even your patient anymore, so there’s nothing dodgy about it – come on, you’ve got all your stuff in the car, right? So kick it into action, and let’s get going.”

Enjolras finds he’s unable to reply. Speechless. It’s a rare enough state for him. But he knows Courfeyrac’s right, it’s just the thought of being in such close proximity to Grantaire _all the time._ Sleeping in his apartment, eating, doing work, getting dressed, _showering…_

His pulse is racing. It never seems to stop, these days. And yet, seemingly completely without his permission, his body starts to move for him – putting the car into gear, and beginning to drive away.

For once in his life, Enjolras cannot be bothered to fight it. So he decides to do something he never normally would, under any circumstances - and just fucking rolls with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARE YOU HAPPY I GAVE YOU LIVING TOGETHER  
> so i can promise much tension from next chapter onwards  
> /showering/  
> thank you so much for reading this, don't forget you can always have a chat to me at martiansarepeopletoo on tumblr, I love talking to you guys! Next chapter shouldn't be too long, love you guys


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god guys, I am the worst person ever i know i know i /know/  
> my only excuse can be exams and a severe case of 'I CAN'T WRITE GET THIS STORY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME I CANNOT WRITE'  
> but now that is all over  
> and i can present to you a chapter that has been a bitch to write and isn't hugely long (i'm so sorry) but is now OUT OF THE WAY HOORAY  
> anyway i will stop whining and let you read this thing (god knows it's taken long enough)

Enjolras is many things – a doctor, a jogger, a coffee fan, a really crap dancer on occasion – and among these, he is also a stupidly heavy sleeper. It’s not that he can’t stay awake past a certain time – it’s just that once he’s in bed, it’s a bit of a challenge to get him out again before at least 12 hours have elapsed. Since leaving university, and discovering that now he _has_ to _actually_ wake himself up, a number of different strategies have been tried, but there’s only one method that’s ever really stuck. Back in his own flat, Enjolras would usually wake to the incessant beeping of his alarm clock – loud, insistent, unbearably shrill, but there’s nothing like it for getting him up at stupid-o-clock after a late night shift. It’s also made of some sort of titanium-strength metal – the amount of times he’s thrown it at the wall at 3am because for Christ’s sake _he only went to bed forty five minutes ago_ has stacked up over time to a number that’s honestly quite incredible. But he’s used to it. It works. And in a job like his getting to work on time is kind of key, so he’s actually grateful for it in a begrudging sort of way.

However, Enjolras is not in his own flat anymore.

Opening his eyes this morning, he is treated not to the irritating tinny beep he’s prepared for, but instead a stream of incredibly loud, really rather impressive (if slightly frightening) operatic wails permeating straight through the wall next to his head from the room beyond, and for a moment he forgets completely where he is. A mild sort of panic echoes faintly through him, but his pillow is really, really comfortable, so he doesn’t pay too much attention to it. Still wrapped in sleep, he opts instead to just fall back against the pillow and let his eyes drift shut. In fact, it’s only when a shadow crosses his hazy path of vision that he actually remembers whose apartment he’s in.

“Um. I – um. What?”

Shit.

Courfeyrac’s in the shower, he can tell from the singing. Using simple process of elimination, which really isn’t too difficult considering the actual number of people resident in this apartment, he manages to work out who it must be standing above him. And, well. Yeah. He reiterates his earlier summation.

Shit.

After Courfeyrac had convinced him to come back to theirs the previous night, he’d spent the rest of the evening in a sort of daze – of course, Courfeyrac had been completely undeterred from his usual mindless chatter, and although he can’t actually remember most of what was said, Enjolras distantly recollects laughing at something. Courfeyrac, it seems, is the sort of person who you want on your side during a personal crisis – to a certain degree, at least, over the course of the evening he’d seemed to acquire a sort of personal vendetta against the idea of Enjolras returning to his apartment before due time, and had taken advantage of his still-shocked brain to get him to agree to stay for what Enjolras thinks he can remember being described as ‘the foreseeable future’. A simple enough phrase, but one which had managed to strike a low sort of fear into his heart at the look on Courfeyrac’s face as he said it – not _plotting_ , exactly, but not too far off becoming just that. He’d been too tired to pursue it further, just nodding, and Courfeyrac had noted his fatigue and directed him to the promised sofa bed, the slight smile still lingering across his face. Said sofa bed had been distinctly more comfortable than most, and Enjolras had been asleep in… well, _seconds_ would probably be a bit of an exaggeration, but certainly minutes. In any case, he’d most definitely not been awake at Grantaire’s return.

And, judging by his tone of voice, apparently Grantaire had not been consulted about taking a guest into his apartment after getting home last night.

Enjolras forces himself to turn around and face his – well, his – whatever Grantaire actually _is_ to him, and the expression he’s met with is one of extreme confusion and ever-so-slight defensiveness. Grantaire looks exhausted (but, Enjolras manages to note, not hungover, so clearly new progress is being made), wearing an old grey t-shirt and a pair of ragged jeans smeared with paint. A maroon hoodie is slung over his shoulders and if Enjolras squints, he thinks he can make out the logo of some local fencing team printed in faded letters – he’d be surprised and a little sceptical about that if he was less tired, but for now just nods vaguely.

“Um. You’re, like. In my living room.”

Enjolras nods again, and the clock on the wall swims into view – 6.14am. It’s a Wednesday, he doesn’t clock in until 10am on Wednesdays, and maybe he’s being slightly unreasonable in his thought processes but he has a strict sleep routine and kind of really wants to get back to the whole being unconscious thing. But Courfeyrac and Grantaire have jobs, they need to be awake, and he can’t doze through their hospitality – actually, no, he really is exhausted, his sleep pattern is very specific, go away life.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to be able to read his mind, and ploughs on anyway, trying a different tack (or rather tone of voice).

“You’re in my living room?”

He smushes his head back into the pillow and sighs, because the inflections in the sound of Grantaire’s voice just have made his heart start kicking at a completely unreasonable pace and he _just wants to sleep, dammit_.

Through the sleepy haze, he does manage a word.

“Courfeyrac…”

Grantaire’s eyes flicker, and he nods before rolling his them. “Right. Of course. That twat. Okay. Now, um, d’you maybe want to, you know, inform me of the reasons for your being here? But shit, sorry, not, like, that’s it’s a _bad_ thing -”

“My house burnt down,” groans Enjolras, cutting him off and knowing full well that there are at least two hyperboles in that sentence and deciding he really doesn’t care. “My house burnt down and Courfeyrac told me to sleep here - I tried, I really did, but he is an asshole and stubborn and there was no way I could go anywhere else once he knew. He’s your friend, he must do stuff like this fairly regularly, the speed at which he managed set up the bed was, chiefly, undeniably incredible and quite frightening.”

At this, Grantaire’s facial expression seems to read ‘Well, I’ll give you that’, and he sticks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he shifts on the spot. Now recognising sleep is a past and distant thing, Enjolras resigns himself and sits up a little, rubbing a hand across his face. His nerve endings are starting to connect and the morning blurriness is being slowly wiped from his brain – replacing it with a not-insubstantial amount of awkwardness. They’ve never been dropped in an environment like this, the hospital always felt like some sort of neutral ground, but now that he’s in Grantaire’s _home_ Enjolras is beginning to worry about this getting really uncomfortable. For both of them. The feeling is tangible, and it hangs heavily in the air for a moment until Grantaire shifts again.

“Your house _burnt down?_ ” he asks, clearly trying to keep the slight smile of incredulity out of his voice in favour of solemnity and failing pathetically.

“Well,” hums Enjolras, trying for a casual tone, and _wow they both really suck at this_ , “When I say _burnt down,_ I might mean less complete and utter carnage and more along the lines of smoke damage to my shitty flat.”

Grantaire grins, and then seems to realise that, oh yeah, could still be pretty bad, and the smile disappears as quickly as it came. It’s a shame. Grantaire really looks nice when he smiles.

“How – how come?”

“I have no idea, to be frank with you, the firemen hadn’t worked out the cause by the time I left. They said they’d get in contact with me once they had some idea, but… yeah. I don’t know.”

Grantaire nods, and walks over so that he’s sitting on the edge of the sofa bed, inches from Enjolras. Enjolras tries to ignore the jolt he feels in his stomach at the proximity, and shifts too so that they’re facing one another.

“How’s Jehan?” he asks, gently.

Grantaire’s face hardens, but only for a second.

“He’s, um. You know. Okay.” A deep breath. “Well. He’s not, but Dr. Pontmercy says he’s improved a lot, the problems from – from before aren’t as prevalent…”

Enjolras nods. Jehan’s diagnosis with clinical depression had been extremely hard for Grantaire to take, convinced as he was that it was his fault Jehan had gotten so problematic because he hadn’t noticed the warning signs sooner. Of course, when he burst out with this during a session with Bahorel, he’s been assured by the doctor that Jehan’s condition was not in any way a result of his actions, but it had taken a private interview with Marius and Enjolras to get him to properly believe what all of the doctors were telling him.

To summarise, Marius has concluded that Jehan had been depressed for a long time before admission, and he’s now being kept under observation due to frequent suicidal thoughts. When Marius had told him this, it had taken a moment for Enjolras to match the seemingly sunny and cheerful man he’d gotten to know with this new, bared Jehan, but he knows better than most how well people can hide the way they really feel. The incident with Montparnasse, Marius had said, probably wasn’t really overly upsetting to Jehan, but rather the straw that broke the camel’s back. And now he’s going to be staying at the hospital ‘until further discussion’. Grantaire, as one would guess, is apparently not too happy with this.

“And is Courfeyrac all right with what’s going on, too?” asks Enjolras, wincing at a particularly high-pitched wail from the shower. Grantaire smirks at this, and shrugs.

“Who knows with that guy. Still as ridiculously in love with Jehan as ever, sometimes I think I should just tape their faces together and let them work it all out for a few hours.” He shifts a bit on the sofa bed, running a hand through his hair. “But I think that, maybe, he’s going to be what does Jehan the most good in the end, you know? Like, when you first met him, you must have seen, Jehan turned into the fucking sun baby from the Teletubbies as soon as he walked into the room. They’re like a movie. It’s ridiculous. And the sexual tension actually gets painful sometimes. But in the end it’s great, because they so obviously love each other, and I think that – for them at least – it’s one of those love-transcends-all-boundaries crappy rom-com stories that actually might have a chance, you know?”

Enjolras does know. And it’s maddening, that they have it so easy – like it’s _destiny_ or some other god-awful cheese-coated line out of a fortune cookie – while all he has awkwardness and desperate kisses in consultation rooms and a need for this to be _so much more_ than it is. He wants what Jehan and Courfeyrac have. And for a couple of hours a day, when he sees Grantaire, it seems so stupidly within reach and yet he _can’t_ go there, he _can’t,_ because it’s been, what, maybe 3 months since he started to actually, properly bother to get to know Grantaire and everyone is in the worst place emotionally at the moment and there have been about five kisses but nothing that implicates anything more than that, not really, and oh God he is so completely and utterly _stupid_.

Grantaire just sits there, in his tattered hoodie and his paint-splattered jeans, looking like he has no idea what the fuck he is doing to Enjolras, but then again, Enjolras doesn’t know that either. So maybe it’s okay. Except of course it isn’t, but Courfeyrac is coming out of the shower now, shouting “Breakfast!” and smiling like he knows exactly what’s on Enjolras’ mind, and Enjolras decides that that’s a problem to worry about another day. Right now, he’s got other things to worry about – such as a sudden and very real fear about just what sort of food Courfeyrac might consider ‘breakfast’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again i apologise most most profusely  
> but hey no more exams (okay like 2 but come on mostly no more) and so i can focus on writing a bit more??? yes????  
> /i am sorry for being a bad person/  
> so thoughts on jehan being depressed? i decided to put it in because in the brick he's described as very melancholy and as a Romantic, and although i love love love fab happy jehan, i thought it would be interesting to go down this route as i haven't seen it done much before. idk, let me know what you guys thought :))  
> like always please please come and talk to me at martiansarepeopletoo on tumblr, you guys are always lovely and excellent and i do not deserve you :)))  
> i love you all, thank you for sticking with me *kisses your faces*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay dudes  
> so  
> i realise i am a bad person  
> and i have not posted for what is quite possibly years now  
> my only excuse is writer's block  
> that is literally it  
> I AM //SORRY  
> but anyway, here's the chapter, skip to the end for more profuse apologies, you're all great, thank you thank you thank you for sticking around if you're still reading this :)))

The fire department get back to Enjolras relatively quickly, all things considered. He’s been staying at Courfeyrac’s apartment for three days, trying desperately to get past the brittle tension in the room every time he and Grantaire are within a few feet of one another, when he receives a phone call. According to the gruff-voiced man on the other end of the phone, they’re fairly certain that the fire had begun in the kitchenette, completely destroying his cooker and fridge and charring most of the rest of the room beyond realistic repair. However, past this, the rest of his flat has escaped with a thin film of smoke damage, and should be easy enough to sort out. It’s hardly pushing his budget, his salary is reasonably high and he barely ever spends anything on his personal accommodation anyway – as soon as he’d begun serious medical studies and realised that his political activities weren’t going to be able to take up as much time as he’d like anymore, he’d started to direct funds to groups that could continue doing the sort of work he wished more people would get involved in, and he’s never missed the cash. Coupling his doctor’s salary with his savings account, he knows he’s not going to be stretched massively to fix up his flat – the only thing he’s really curious about is how exactly the fire came into being. The firefighters had identified that the blaze had most likely been the result of some sort of cooking accident – “leaving the hob on, forgetting to turn off the gas, that sort of thing,” – but he can’t for the life of him imagine how such an incident could come to pass. He rarely cooks anything, let alone breakfast, and he’s pretty sure that morning had been a grab-a-nutrient-bar-on-the-way-out-of-the-door sort of day, but then again his cooker’s never been the most fabulously functioning piece of equipment and he can easily imagine it spontaneously combusting if given the chance. Both Joly and Combeferre have tried to convince him to get someone in, check that this actually was the cause because fuck knows he probably won’t be lucky enough to be out of his flat should another fire start up, but he really doesn’t see the point as long as his work’s been moved somewhere safe (which it has, now, back-up copies at Joly’s house – the majority of his paperwork in the bedroom’s heavy chest of drawers had miraculously escaped the smoke, by some saint-given blessing from above). He’ll get the apartment sorted out soon enough, he knows, but for now he has his hands full with the interns at the hospital and besides, Courfeyrac has been very generous with his flat space. Incredibly generous, in fact. Enjolras has even been given a proper mattress to spend his sleeping hours on, rather than the sofa (which had been comfortable to begin with but played havoc with his neck after a second night), and he keeps catching Courfeyrac’s smug-ass grin every time he so much as glances in Grantaire’s direction. Not that he suspects his friend of an ulterior motive to their current living arrangement - after all, Courfeyrac can truly and wholly encompass the phrase ‘little shit’ sometimes but it’s not as if he’d actually use the situation to his own tactical advantage for his sodding Cupid-esque schemes. Not really.

Well. Okay. Yeah. Probably. But he’s also keeping a roof over Enjolras’ head, so it’s not as if he has much right or reason to complain.

On the fourth day, he heads into work early for his Saturday shift. Grantaire’s coming in for a Jehan visit later, declining Enjolras’ offer of a lift due to the fact that it was a) “six thirty on a Saturday morning” and b) “six fucking thirty on a Saturday morning Jesus Christ why the hell did you become a doctor you ridiculous nerd”. It’s just him and Combeferre in the office this early, the night shifts are leaving and the two of them are the only ones who ever arrive this punctually every single day. It’s been a quiet night according to Joly, who clocks out with an exhausted sigh and then practically runs in the direction of the restaurant to find Musichetta (and, Enjolras is beginning to suspect, Bossuet as well – he’s been over at the others’ apartment a lot more frequently than usual, and they’ve been sharing rides to the hospital quite a bit recently too – but hey, they’re clearly making it work, so good for them). He enters the office to find Joly’s paperwork scattered all over the place, and settles to filing it with a sigh and a small smile – Joly’ll be stupidly grateful with him when he finds out, and an owed favour certainly never goes amiss. As Combeferre enters the room, yawning and pushing his glasses up his nose with one hand as he ruffles hair that’s in dire need of a cut with the other, Enjolras has just finished making the first coffee of the day and holds it out to him with a smile. Combeferre accepts it with a weary nod (and simply from this Enjolras can tell that he’s been working extra shifts again, desperate to get in the practical hours required so he can spend more time revising for his final exams – things like this are what make him shine the best of Enjolras’ intern team by tenfold) and slumps down in his chair, ready to begin sorting through his own paperwork. The quiet night slowly shifts into a quiet morning, and the two of them barely leave the office, sitting in companionable silence and only getting up to see to short check ups and confirm prescriptions of medication. It’s been two hours and they’ve barely spoken a word when Enjolras flips over a sheet of paper and feels his heart plummet at the words he sees printed there.

“What the _fuck_?”

Combeferre wheels around on his chair, a look of concern on his face. “Enjolras?”

Enjolras stares at the paper for a few seconds longer, disbelief morphing to a sort of disappointed anger as he shakes his head and turns around. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to – but why has he - oh Marius, seriously, come _on…_ that’s not necessary.”

Combeferre’s frown deepens, and he rolls his chair across the small office space to peer over Enjolras’ shoulder and read the report that lies there.

Most of it is the tiny, indecipherable print of the complex forms that have to be filled in after any consultation at the hospital. Even so, Enjolras can see Combeferre’s keen eyes flicker through the whole thing behind his glasses before he reaches the final box on the page, the one Enjolras has taken such offence to.

‘Despite the apparent positive progress in mentality and condition that my reports have previously recorded, following this routine consultation and discussion with my patient (dated as above), it is of my opinion as patient’s long-term assigned psychiatrist that PROUVAIRE, JEAN would benefit notably from an extended period of time spent within a specialist psychiatric hospital/ward and be given expert care and therapy from a psychiatrist specialising in maniac depression, as after further observation of patient I believe the previous diagnosis of clinical depression to be incorrect, and that said patient is suffering from maniac depression.. Recent activities show a sudden and drastic negative change in mindset; further and more specialised treatment is strongly advised.’

Marius is a good doctor. Enjolras knows this. He’s intelligent, passed all of his exams with flying colours, and specialised in a very complex area far earlier than many equivalent members of his field. But in this, in this alone, Enjolras knows that the young psychiatrist simply has to be wrong.

Jehan has been improving drastically over the past month or so, he’s been so much more positive and Marius has even been talking about the possibility of moving him in with Courfeyrac and Grantaire. There’s been a notable change in his friends, too - Grantaire keeps singing under his breath when he comes back from visits, and Courfeyrac returns with laughter in his eyes and cheeks, usually wrapped in one of Jehan’s brightest and most colourful scarves. Things have been  _good,_  everyone’s been good, Grantaire and Jehan both making huge leaps forward at the hospital – Grantaire’s course is nearly over, and Enjolras had felt like he could have burst with the sudden shock of relief when Bahorel had told him he saw no reason for Grantaire to be sent on any further rehabilitative courses after this, the detoxification having worked extremely well. Of course, Enjolras knows better than most that stable abstinence within alcoholism is incredibly delicate and fragile; one slip could easily shatter the entire thing and Grantaire’s going to be dancing along a tightrope for the rest of his life, but equally he knows that this is a balancing act Grantaire won’t have to manage alone.

Then again. He’d thought the same thing about Jehan.

He has to find Marius and get him to explain, because for Jehan to relapse now isn’t just a setback, but so completely and sickeningly  _unfair_  to someone who deserves so much better than what they’ve been dealt. Pushing back his chair, he rises and strides over to the door, and he doesn’t even have to glance over his shoulder to know that Combeferre is following silently in his wake.

***

Not much of the room is visible from Enjolras’ standpoint behind the door’s small glass window, but glancing through it he can see enough. Inside, Jehan’s sharp profile is illuminated by the afternoon sunlight filtering through the thin white blinds wafting in the wind from the open window just behind him. His expression is unreadable, or at least indistinct from here, but a low hanging sadness seems to emanate from the room – maybe it’s just imagined, after all that Marius has said to him this afternoon, but Enjolras sees the slumped figure sitting in the room and a dull ache echoes through his chest. This sort of sadness is omnipresent at the hospital, but the rawness of seeing someone looking so utterly beaten down never fails to leave its impact every time.

Jehan’s hair is hung in a loose plait over his shoulder, and it looks much thinner than normal with the absence of its usual ribbons and bows. He’s dressed in a simple standard hospital gown, checked with blue and white, and he looks frighteningly _plain_ – so contrasting to the bright colours and outrageous prints that Enjolras has gotten used to. More than anything, Enjolras is passionate, and to see such dejection in someone who has always burnt so brightly is utterly heartbreaking.

He makes to move away from the window – he needs to go and discuss Jehan’s options with Courfeyrac and Grantaire now, they deserve to know what’s going on – when a flicker of movement in the room catches his eye. He stops to glace back through, and a shock goes through him at the sight of _Courfeyrac_ , of all people. The dark haired boy moves into his line of vision from the side of the room, the worn yellow t-shirt he never seems to take off illuminating the dim room softly. Enjolras hadn’t even known Courfeyrac had left the flat this morning.

He knows he shouldn’t listen. But they are entrancing, the gentle way their eyes meet, Courfeyrac’s hand resting on Jehan’s shoulder – Grantaire had been so completely right about them, in every way – and he finds himself leaning closer to the door despite himself.

“Dr. Pontmercy told you.”

Courfeyrac kneels to Jehan’s level, and yet there is not a hint of condescension in the movement. It is fluid and necessary, and he reaches out a hand to touch Jehan’s cheek.

“Yes.”

“It’s okay.” Jehan’s voice is cracked, and Courfeyrac sighs. “No. It is. I don’t mind, really. I knew it would happen again eventually – I mean, we all did, didn’t we?”

“Jehan, if you dare blame yourself - ”

“I’m not, I’m not. I promise” –Jehan’s eyes widen at Courfeyrac’s shifting expression – “I promise, I’m not. I understand. But it’s when things swing badly that I forget, you know I do, and I get so angry and so sad and I can’t keep _doing_ this, Courfeyrac, I _can’t_. Right now, I’m rational, and I have to make my decision now before I stop thinking rationally again – we both know that could be any time, and I am so sick of that hanging over my head at every opportunity. It’s like – like this black cloud, and it doesn’t just hover over me – it _engulfs_ me, completely and utterly, and then it clears and I get so happy again because it’s gone – but never for long. You can’t ask me to keep feeling like this, Courfeyrac. _I_ can’t ask me to. Not any more.”

Enjolras shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t –

“I understand.” Courfeyrac is blinking back tears now, and his face screws up for a moment before he heaves in a deep breath and continues. “Jehan, whatever you need me to do, I will do it. Okay? If you need anything, you just have to tell me, please, anything I can do to stop this happening again.”

Jehan studies his face again, and for a moment their profiles are stark and strong against the light from the window. Then he leans forward, and kisses Courfeyrac on the forehead, and Courfeyrac squeezes his eyes shut tight and breathes hard.

It’s the most private thing Enjolras has ever seen, and he is frozen to the spot, unable to look away. The tiny square of glass in the door is like a window to another world, and he cannot think to move.

Courfeyrac jerks his head back all of a sudden; at something Enjolras isn’t close enough to hear.

“What?”

Jehan smiles, and it’s as brilliant as his old smiles were.

“Cut it off.”

Courfeyrac pulls back entirely, horror all over his face.

“No. _No._ ”

“You said whatever I needed.”

“ _Christ_ , Jehan, I can’t take it away, it’s a fucking _part_ of you…”

But Courfeyrac is already rising to his feet, and Enjolras knows he could never deny Jehan anything. Not even, apparently, this. Whatever exactly this is. He isn’t totally sure what Jehan’s talking about, not yet, but he can guess at the implications.

Courfeyrac crosses the room slowly, his head twisting so that Jehan is constantly in his line of vision, and reaches for something in a dark bag that’s been thrown across a plastic chair. Enjolras leans forward automatically to try and see what it is, but remembers himself just before he ends up moving the door and revealing his presence. The skinny hand comes out of the bag clutched tight, but something glints as Courfeyrac zips the bag back up and Enjolras so nearly bursts into the room, how the fuck was that allowed into the room –

“Jehan, you have to be completely sure about this  - because I can’t, not after all this time – oh God, Jehan, it’s your  _hair_.”

Enjolras lets out a sigh as be sees the scissors in Courfeyrac’s hand, a gentle exhalation filled with sadness. He doesn’t know if he can bring himself to watch this.

Jehan makes a noise of assent, and it’s enough. Courfeyrac lifts the plait from Jehan’s shoulder, unbinding the blue tie at the end and fingering the strands reverently as he slowly lets the hair fall around thin shoulders. Jehan shuts his eyes at the touch, and nods ever so slightly. As soon as he notices the motion, Courfeyrac’s eyes tighten, but he takes the scissors with a sort of desperate determination and holds them up anyway.

“Just do it.”

Jehan’s voice is as strong as it was back when Enjolras had first met him, and Courfeyrac seems to take this as some sort of sign that he actually needs to do this. Gathering up strands of honey coloured hair, he slices through the first lock without a hint of hesitation and they float to the floor, littering the plastic tiles in a criss-cross pattern. The room is quiet but for the  _snick_  of the scissors, and the sound of their inconsistent breathing.

After a few minutes have passed by, and Enjolras can no longer feels his legs for standing still so long, the floor around Jehan is covered in silky strands and his once waist-length hair now falls to just before his shoulders. Courfeyrac runs a shaky hand through it, and Jehan moves backwards into the touch.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

Courfeyrac leans around, and Jehan leans up, and suddenly the moment feels much, much too private. Enjolras commands his legs to move and somehow they obey him; he pushes away from the door and won’t intrude on any more. This is their personal business, and he should never have seen this much at all.

He walks along the corridor, and all he can think about is the image of Jehan silhouetted against the curtain, while Marius’ words wash in and out of his ears. According to his friend, Jehan had undergone a massive shift in his mental state, and Enjolras had been scarcely able to believe the things Marius had told him – recently, Jehan’s positivity had been building back up drastically, and Marius had been so happy with his progress that he’d even been talking about taking him off suicide watch. But things had changed, things always, always change, and this time not for the better – at first, Marius had noticed Jehan wasn’t concentrating properly; refusing his meals and the nurse on duty had reported that he’d been restless during the night. The morning he’d come to session with scratch marks down his still-healing arms and deep nail grooves in his cheeks, Marius had asked him what was wrong. When he’d started pulling hair from his scalp, Marius had sent him into a seclusive room, but then the crying had begun, and the begging, and above all else the horrible, grating _whining_ noises – when he’d calmed down, and they’d begun to talk again, Jehan had whispered that he couldn’t stop thinking about doing it again, and Marius had asked him to complete some more tests. Things had tumbled downhill from there. Finally, Jehan had said it flat out: “ _I want to go somewhere else and I want to get better there_.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Enjolras had spat out, half numbed from Marius’ words.

Marius had looked at him and sighed.

“One day, you’ll remember the rules of this place, Enjolras, and the fact that you aren’t actually in my department.”

Enjolras puts his head in his hands, and sighs. It’s been a long day.

A noise from his right jerks him out of his reverie, and he turns his head to see a familiar figure rounding the corner of the corridor. He rises the second Grantaire meets his eyes, and sweet Christ, he must be broadcasting his emotions much more openly than he thought, because Grantaire’s face falls within seconds and his walk quickens to a hurry.

“What is it, what’s happened?” His voice is urgent and quick, his eyes are alert.

Enjolras sits back down. Grantaire stares down at him, and all he wants is not to have to tell him. This is going to hurt Grantaire, so much of the world already seems set on hurting Grantaire, and Enjolras can’t stand to be the one bearing news that is only going to make it worse.

“Jehan…” His voice breaks, and he tries again. “Jehan’s being transferred.”

Grantaire looks at him blankly, and he takes a deep breath.

“He’s going to a psychiatric hospital to be treated for previously undiagnosed maniac depression.”

Grantaire is still staring, but this time Enjolras knows he’s been understood.

They stay like that for several moments, Enjolras looking up at Grantaire and Grantaire staring right back. The eyes boring into his are mismatched, one blue and one brown, and they hold no recognition at all. Grantaire is not seeing him; Grantaire can see only his thoughts – and if he focuses carefully, Enjolras thinks that maybe he can see them too, swirling in front of Grantaire’s eyes. He is stock still, stood before him, and the whirring of his brain is almost audible. It’s only when the door opens and Courfeyrac comes out that life jerks back into him.

“Courf.”

Courfeyrac just looks tired. They are all so tired at the moment, thinks Enjolras, and maybe this will be the break they’re all desperate for.

“It’s done, Grantaire. He’s going, and he’s doing it because he wants to. Don’t try to ask me to stop him, because I won’t do it.”

With that, Courfeyrac is gone, disappearing down the corridor. Grantaire’s eyes follow him, and then swivel back to Enjolras; he can see desperation in there.

“Enjolras – Enjolras, he’s not well, he’s not going to mean anything that he decides, not really, you can’t take him _away,_ that’d be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it! Come on! Wouldn’t it?”

Enjolras just looks at him, and Grantaire’s eyes tighten.

“He’s my best friend. You can’t – he’s my _best friend_ , he’s been there for me through all this shit, you can’t ask me to just let him go without me…”

His voice catches. Enjolras wants nothing more in the world than to catch hold of his clenched fists and stroke them until they are soft again, touch Grantaire’s cheek gently and promise him that he won’t let Jehan be parted from him. He wants that so much.

“Jehan’s personal views are important. If this is what he wants, then I have to support him. I’m sorry, Grantaire.”

Those tight eyes begin to fill, and a look of incredulity floods over Grantaire’s face.

“What the _shit_?” he says, and he backs away. “No! What? This is ridiculous. He’s fucking sick, don’t you _get_ that! You can’t just send him away because he’s fucking asked you to!”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras begins, standing and reaching for his arm, but Grantaire flinches back.

“ _No_. Don’t fucking touch me. No.”

Grantaire’s face is unrecognisable. Looking hard enough, Enjolras could swear he can see something akin to loathing there, and it makes his skin crawl.

He watches Grantaire walk away, a shiver running down his spine, and tries to stoically blink away the sudden blurriness that’s filling his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you go friends, new chapter, i hope you enjoyed it? let me know! i have a new tumblr url, gracejolras, so feel free to drop me a message and have a chat, it's always great when that happens, you're all so fabulous <33  
> now, i'm off for what is essentially 5 weeks without wifi tomorrow for a 'family holiday' (wahoo) so i am really really sorry but i will not be able to update in that time at all?? i recognise this is an issue, and i apologise a lot, but it can't be helped and i can only hope that the extra length of this chapter serves as a sort of fill in. you're all lovely people and i hope you understand :)) so, fingers crossed, i'll see you all in a few weeks!!

**Author's Note:**

> I am NOT a medical professional or a student, so all the details here were provided by our LORD GOOGLE - I apologise for any inaccuracies there may be! Also, hospitals kind of creep me out, so I haven't ever spent much time in one - yeah, basically I chose to write about a subject I am pretty ill-educated on. I'm judging myself, don't worry. Thanks for reading, more's on its way!


End file.
